


Kindred

by elderastarte



Category: EXO
Genre: Abandonment, Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Awkward Crush, Brotherly Love, Dysfunctional Family, Fun, Gen, Illegal Activities, Mental Health Issues, Nicknames, POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Superpowers, Trust Issues, Unethical Medicine, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 67,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7424287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderastarte/pseuds/elderastarte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cops and convicts really shouldn't be friends. They met by sheer coincidence, but like fate, Kyungsoo always comes when Chanyeol calls. Then one time he doesn't, catastrophe strikes, and Kyungsoo is dragged into a world of secrets, superpowers, and survival. Nothing is what is seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Family You Choose I

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters won't have distinct names, instead, they are named and numbered for the substory/plot thread they belong to, and many (all) of them pretzel up throughout the story. Updates weekly!  
> The POVs (so far):  
> The Family You Choose - Kyungsoo & Chanyeol  
> Obligations We Inherit - Jongdae & Baekhyun  
> Trust I Betrayed- Joonmyeon  
> The Stranger You Pity - Kris (Yifan)

Kyungsoo drummed an index finger on the formica table, impatient at being kept waiting for so long. He was tired of hearing the constant buzz and clang of security doors as the prison’s denizens moved between sections. He wanted to be outside, where he could feel the sun on his face instead of fluorescent radiation and smell actual nature instead of spring-scented cleaning products and concrete. They’d only been here for half of an hour, and the feeling of being stifled was already beginning to drive him batty. He had no idea how the inmates could stand being trapped in this place for years. He would rather be put to death. 

The soft clacking of wood beside him warned Kyungsoo that his partner was also getting restless. Jongdae was their squad’s pillar of discipline and reserve, the obvious choice to pair with a rookie like Kyungsoo even if they hadn’t been childhood friends. But even he was fidgeting, carved cherrywood bracelets shifting up and down his wrists as he picked imaginary lint from his pants, smoothed his hair, checked his watch. His uncharacteristic antsiness would have been a source of great amusement if Kyungsoo hadn’t been so close to climbing the walls himself. With difficulty, he stilled his own tapping fingers and pulled a long breath through his nose, trying to wring calm collectedness from the air. This visit had been his idea after all, so he had to bear the inconvenience with a semblance of self-control. His resolve began to erode once more as he stared at the room’s dingy concrete walls, but finally, the sharp click of the door lock echoed into the room. Jongdae instantly straightened in his seat, arms crossed, his icy, justice-wielding persona slamming into place like a bulletproof shield. Kyungsoo sat a little straighter as well as the inmate they’d been waiting for was escorted into the room at a shuffle, handcuffs and leg irons clinking.

As soon as he spotted his visitors, Yeol broke into a grin that stretched from one ear to the other. Normally, Kyungsoo would have returned the friendly greeting and maybe asked about those new bruises on his chin, but Jongdae stiffened, his fingers curling into claws over the arm of his chair. Jongdae’s legendary poker face was back in place instantly, but Kyungsoo had known him for too long not to clock the strange reaction. 

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that they were here to see Yeol— everybody knew about Kyungsoo’s relationship with him.  _Arresting the infamous Virus before he’d had even a full month on the force had won Kyungsoo his first medal, his current assignment, and an embarrassing amount of media attention.  Even after chasing the Virus for three years, the international task force had never found any concrete evidence of his identity.  Eventually it was discovered that one person, Yeol, been ‘seen’ at every arson site, but shady witnesses and doctored security camera footage were barely enough to arrest him. In order to prosecute, they needed him to confess. Helpfully, Yeol had announced his intent to confess to the horde of reporters flocking around the police station on the night of his arrest. Unhelpfully, he’d stopped speaking to anyone except Kyungsoo after that announcement, forcing the rookie to visit him every week to gather evidence, drip by drip. It didn’t take Kyungsoo long to figure out that Yeol was playing them. Every once in a while, he would tell Kyungsoo something juicy, and Kyungsoo would dutifully report it to the task force. But the tidbit was always poisoned, contradicting one of the witnesses or something captured on the security camera footage, forcing a reinvestigation and whipping the media into a frenzy. After nearly two years, he’d trashed so much of the evidence against him that the task force didn’t even have enough to keep him in jail if he chose to retract his confession. The flimsiness of their case was a state secret guarded around the clock against the FreeYeol fan club, who left pink love letters embedded in the prison fence when they weren’t stealing the tarnished evidence and posting it online. Yet, Yeol kept himself in prison with the weekly interviews, 99 parts pointless chatter, 1 part useless confession. Kyungsoo saw Yeol more often than his own parents, and they lived in the same apartment building._

Oblivious to Jongdae’s death glare, Yeol had plunked himself down in the small chair opposite the two investigators,cheerfully allowing the guards to chain him to the steel ring embedded in the floor.

“Kyungsoo!”  Yeol’s deep voice resonated in the small room as he cheerfully allowed the guards to chain him to the steel ring embedded in the floor. “Wow,” he sighed dramatically, ”It’s not even my birthday, but you visit twice in one week and even brought a present.” He beamed his megawatt smile at Jongdae and seemed utterly unfazed by the stony face of rejection he received in return.

Kyungsoo tossed a folder onto the table with slap, glossy crime scene stills sliding out from the cover towards the inmate, who peered at them interestedly.

“This isn’t our usual type of conversation, Yeol. You owe me a favor from the last time, so I’m here to collect.” Kyungsoo tried very hard to ignore the sudden prickling in his neck as Jongdae turned his medusa stare onto him. That stare had been known to break down criminals faster than any fancy interrogation technique, and, frankly, it was unnerving to have it used on him. It was like Jongdae was trying to peel pack his skin to view his soul, using only his eyes. 

Clearing his throat nervously, he picked up a picture from the top of the pile, showing Yeol the blackened interior of an apartment. “My team is investigating a string of apartment fires,” he explained. “We’ve traced all the fires to their origin points, but we can’t figure out how the accelerant was applied. Since you using undetectable accelerant is your specialty, I’m hoping you’ll help us out.” He put the picture on the table and slid it towards the other man.

Yeol shrugged and leaned closer to the picture, until his nose was almost touching the table. He studied it for a long moment, and Kyungsoo seized the opportunity to steal a glance at his partner. Jongdae caught his glance and held it, mouthing with deliberate slowness, We. Will. Talk. Kyungsoo gulped and turned back to the picture, suddenly dreading the end of this interview.

Yeol awkwardly stretched his chained hands over the picture, pointing out a spot beside the sink with one long finger. “What’s this?”

Kyungsoo reclaimed the picture and squinted at the spot, but it just seemed like another sooty pile of debris in the kitchen to him.“I don’t know,” he admitted, showing it to Jongdae.

“Latex,” his partner ground out in a low voice, jaw clenched. “From a pair of burned kitchen gloves.”

“Ah,” Yeol quickly looked down at the table, but not before Kyungsoo caught the flash of realization that crossed his face.

“What is it?” Kyungsoo pressed, “You thought of something?”

Yeol looked away, his ears turning pink. “No…”

“You’re a terrible liar. Tell me.”

Yeol leaned in, a strange glint in his eye. “If I tell you two things about this photo, will you grant one wish?” he asked.

Kyungsoo considered it. He didn’t relish the idea of agreeing to a nameless wish made by an incarcerated felon, but Yeol knew something.

“Fine,” he agreed. “Tell me the first thing, and I’ll decide if it makes us even on the favor you owe me.” Jongdae radiated disapproval, but Kyungsoo was past trying to decipher his  problem.

Yeol tapped the photo again. “That pile isn’t from gloves. I mean, I can’t tell from here, but I’d bet it was a balloon.”

Kyungsoo looked at the nonescript, sooty pile in the picture, barely visible. _Damn._ He was going to owe this guy a wish. He opened his mouth to tell him to go on, but Jongdae slammed a hand down on the table, the first time he’d moved the entire time Yeol had been in the room. It startled Kyungsoo so badly he had to remind himself to take a breath, and Yeol looked a little rattled as well.

“Enough. Conversation over.” The senior investigator stood, gathering up the photos with brisk efficiency, and fixed Yeol with a steely stare. “He owes you nothing. You’re even. Consider whatever deals you and Do had in the past to be null and void, and stick to the confessions, convict.” With that he stalked to the door and hammered on it to alert the guard. “We’re done here!”

Kyungsoo rose with an apologetic shrug. He was reluctant to leave when he felt so close to breaking this case, but he’d never seen Jongdae this way before. It was better to leave now and find out what was wrong, and come back later alone. He was halfway to the door when the table thndered against the wall behind him, and he whirled to see Yeol lunging at him.

Kyungsoo screamed involuntarily, dropping into a defensive crouch, but the leg chains tangled around Yeol’s calves before he could take two steps. He ended up sprawled on the floor, his body stretching across the distance between them, clutching Kyungsoo’s ankle with both manacled hands. The guards were in the room and on top of him in moments.

“Just answer the phone when I call!” Yeol shrieked as the guards pried Kyungsoo’s ankle out of his hands, and Jongdae dragged him out of harm’s way by the collar as they battled to keep the tall man on the ground. “Answer it!” Another guard appeared at a run and leapt into the fray, and Kyungsoo let himself be towed out of the room. As they disappeared from view, Yeol let out a howl of pure frustration, and Kyungsoo finally caught a glimpse of the person behind the smile, and he was young, desperate, and scared.

The sight floored him, and Jongdae managed to drag him all the way out to the parking lot before he twisted out of his iron grip. 

“Why did you end the interview like that?” Kyungsoo demanded, adrenaline overriding his earlier caution. “He was going to tell us something important and you ruined it!”

Jongdae moved fast, slapping Kyungsoo across the back of the head before he could dodge.

“Why didn’t you tell me your informant was the Virus,” he hissed back. Kyungsoo was about to come back with a retort about that much being obvious, but the look in his friend’s eyes turned his tongue to wood. Jongdae was livid, his chest heaving,  jaw and fists clenched, his whole body vibrating. Kyungsoo was suddenly certain that Jongdae would beat him bloody if he said something sassy.

“I didn’t think it would matter to you,” he said honestly. “It just seemed like he would be able to help.The modus operandi is similar, and I talk to him all the time—”

“Stop.” Jongdae ran his fingers through his hair, then struggled for something to do with his hands, finally planting them on the car. “This guy we’re chasing is some petty pyro who’s burned down a few kitchens. The Virus,” he spat the name like the title of a depraved war criminal, “left a trail of destruction worth billions. Every time you come here he tells you about another fire he’s responsible for— do you have any idea what his death toll is?” Kyungsoo really didn’t want to be wrong, so he said nothing. Jongdae placed his hands gently on his shoulders, his voice going calm as he looked into his eyes. “ Sixty deaths and counting. Sixty.  God knows how many injured. My grandmother’s entire village went up in flames because they didn’t have enough volunteers to put out all the little fires that monster started. She died for no reason!” Jongdae yelled the last words in Kyungsoo’s face, his voice shaking with rage. “And you didn’t think it _mattered_?”

Kyungsoo bowed his head in contrition, unable to meet Jongdae’s gaze. The fires plaguing Southeast Asia and China had been news even while he was high school, and the hunt for the arsonist the media named The Virus was discussed in nearly ever class at the police university. He’d had nightmares about the pictures he’d seen from a fire in a Hong Kong hotel, a roomful of charred corpses forever frozen at the moment of their death, arms outstretched towards the window, their mouths gaping open in silent screams. But when he’d met Yeol for the first time, he’d only seen a person, not the monster Jongdae so clearly hated. Then again, none of those corpses had been someone he knew. None of the dead littering Yeol’s footsteps had been Kyungsoo’s family. In the face of Kyungsoo’s apologetic silence, Jongdae blew out a long breath, and released him to lean against the car again, looking up at the sky. They stayed that way for a while, letting the tension bleed away from the moment. Paper hearts twisted into the iron fence fluttered in the breeze above their heads.

“What was the favor he owed you?” he asked finally, his voice a little less poisonous than before.

Kyungsoo relaxed incrementally. “You know how I’ve always thought Yeol chose me to talk to because we’re donggap, the same age?” Jongdae was nodding, and Kyungsoo relaxed further. “In the beginning, I traded favors with him to get answers to our questions. They were always small, stupid things like bringing him a chocolate bar or telling him the score of the football game, so the task force allowed it. We don’t do it much anymore, but last week I brought him was one of those hotel bottles of hair oil, but he didn’t tell me anything new, so I told him he owed me a favor.”

Jongdae was side-eyeing him now. “You think of him as a friend,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“He’s just a felon,” Kyungsoo assured him. _That I bring gifts to and have long conversations with._ “I’m only interviewing him because we need his confession to close all of those open arson cases.” _Not because he’s my only friend or anything._ “I’m just doing my job.” 

Jongdae raised one eyebrow. “Just remember, natural disasters have killed less people than the Virus,” he told him, pulling out his car keys and tossing them over. “You drive.”

Kyungsoo trotted to the driver’s side, relieved that Jongdae wasn’t angry anymore but still uneasy. He knew Jongdae was right. He knew. Yeol wasn’t his friend. He was an arsonist, so devastating that the media had named him after a disease and so mainpulative that even his confessions worked in his favor. But still…his face when he’d asked for that final favor--it had tugged at something inside Kyungsoo. When Yeol called, of course he would answer.  —

Jongdae glanced up from his report briefly as Kyungsoo skipped off to the interrogation room to watch the questioning of their new suspect. The clue the Virus had given them, that the latex wasn’t from the kitchen gloves, had been the key to the whole case. The arsonist had been using gas-filled balloons as his accelerant, and Jongdae had kicked himself the entire drive back from the prison for not seeing it in all the time they’d been investigating this case. Knowing that the disease had figured it out in seconds, that they might have lost this case completely if not for his help, rankled him to his very core. 

Kyungsoo clearly didn’t mind his assistance, bouncing back and forth between the local detectives in charge of the case and their temporary special consultant’s desk with barely contained energy. He was so similar to Jongdae’s younger brother, bright-eyed and bursting with the belief that justice would prevail in all things. Sometimes that undying optimism was inspiring. Most of the time, the dogged insistence that trash-like people were worth saving made Jongdae grind his teeth with frustration. His brother wasted his valuable time with the inmates at the prison, volunteering free legal advice from the classes he was taking and putting his treasured psychology degree to work with unofficial counseling sessions. He and Kyungsoo loved to natter on about the difference they were making in the world whenever they were together, and normally Jongdae weathered it all with the patience of an older brother.

Except Kyungsoo had treated that undeserving, unrepentant human pestilence like a friend. Jongdae had seen in his partner’s eyes that he was worried about the inmate when they left, even after he knew what he’d done to Jongdae’s family. There was no doubt in his mind that, on one of his many ‘research’ trips to the file room across the hall, he’d contacted the prison to leave his number. If the Virus called, Kyungsoo would answer and go running.

Jongdae rolled his chair across the narrow aisle to Kyungsoo’s desk. Electronic devices weren’t allowed in the interrogation room, so he always left his phone is his top drawer for safekeeping. Jongdae pulled it out and entered the code, his birthday backwards, like all of his passwords. He swiftly typed in the number that always popped up in his brother’s  caller id whenever the inmates were feeling bored and wanted to take advantage of his good nature. Just as he finished typing, the phone shivered in his hand, humming as that very number scrolled across the screen. With an immense sense of satisfaction, Jongdae thumbed the button to end the call. With a few more quick swipes, he erased all traces of the call and ensured that the number would never ring in that phone again, no matter how many times they called. Humming softly to himself, he gently placed Kyungsoo’s phone back in his desk and rolled back to his own station. Sometimes the young ones need to be protected from themselves.


	2. The Family You Choose II

The light burble of Kyungsoo’s ringtone roused him from a deep sleep, and it took several moments of blindly patting his bedside table to find his phone. Still groggy, he thumbed the call button and flopped back down on the bed, sandwiching the phone between his head and the pillow.

“Y’bseyo,” he mumbled, voice gritty, already drifting back to sleep.

“Did I dial wrong?” At the sound of a familiar voice, Kyungsoo’s eyes peeled open. “No…whooaa. Soo! Wake up, buddy. It’s Yoondae.”

Jongdae’s brother slept like a corpse and barely even breathed until the sun was at least two fingers above horizon. Kyungsoo always teased that he was solar powered, but it was still hours until dawn.

“What’s wrong?” Kyungsoo fought down a yawn and sat up in his bed, shivering in his thin t-shirt as his thick quilt fell away. “Is Jongdae okay?”

“He’s fine,” Yoondae assured him. “I’m calling from Nambu. An inmate here was injured pretty badly in a fight last night. The guards were investigating the fight, and he called some number over twenty times yesterday. I dialed it and got you. Weird?”

Kyungsoo blinked slowly, brain still waking up. “I never got any calls.”

“I just redialed the number he called, and you answered.”

Kyungsoo squinted at the bright display of his phone, then put it back to his ear. “You’re calling me from your cell. Try with the prison phone.”

He let loose with the yawn he’d been fighting while he listened to Yoondae bustle about on the other line.

His voice was a bit breathless when he spoke again. “Hey, Soo, you didn’t answer again.”

Kyungsoo looked down at his phone. “That’s…strange. It didn’t tell me there was an incoming call.” He frowned at the phone for a moment, then checked his settings. There was a number in his auto-reject list that he hadn’t put there, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

“Who was the inmate?” he demanded. “Was it Yeol?”

“Uh, hold on…” There was muffled conversation at the other end. When he returned, Yoondae’s voice was panicky “Get over here.”

Kyungsoo punched his headboard in frustration, and scrambled out of bed. “ I gave my number to the prison because he said he was going to call!” He started flinging on clothes. “ Why is his number in my reject list!? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know anything, yet. I didn’t even know it was him,” Yoondae said. “The doctor hasn’t come out of the infirmary yet. I can ask—”

“I’ll be there in ten,” Kyungsoo interrupted, grabbing his jacket and keys. “Don’t let anybody see him before I do, understand?”

He hung up without hearing Yoondae’s reply, knowing his friend would do as he asked.

  —

Yoondae was sitting awkwardly in a too-small chair outside of the infirmary, his leg jiggling nervously, tearing his cuticles to shreds. He jumped up when he spotted Kyungsoo approaching, but Kyungsoo waved it away.

“Where’s the doctor?” he asked, breathless from running all the way from the parking lot and impatient for an update.

“You just missed her,” Yoondae looked down the hallway opposite of the way Kyungsoo entered. “Srihe left about ten minutes ago, but she said she was coming right back, oh, wait,” he trailed off as a woman in a silver ponytail and billowing white coat rounded the corner and marched briskly in their direction.

As she drew closer, both young men bowed respectfully.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Kyungsoo greeted her first. “I’m Do Kyungsoo from the Seoul Police Department.”

“Dr. Lee, Kyungsoo is the one Yeol tried to call,” Yoondae added helpfully when the doctor eyed Kyungsoo doubtfully. “He should know what happened.”

“What did happen?” Kyungsoo pressed, anxiously looking from the lawyer to the doctor for answers. Dr. Lee’s mouth tightened, and she gestured curtly for them to follow as she swiped them into the infirmary with her ID badge. Kyungsoo sneezed at the sharp tang of antiseptic as she led them to a curtained off bed in the furthest corner of the infirmary and pulled aside the gauzy curtains surrounding a bed. Kyungsoo gasped out loud at the state of the patient inside.

“Who did this?” Kyungsoo asked in horror, involuntarily reaching out to the unconscious man. Yeol’s face was bruised and swollen beyond recognition, and angry red splotches covered his entire body where it wasn’t already wrapped in bloody gauze.

Dr. Lee caught his hand gently and pushed him a step away from the bed, and Kyungsoo fumbled his hands into his pockets. “How did this happen?”

“I was leaving late after a consult in a different wing, and I dropped my phone,” Yoondae said softly. “On my way back to look for it, I heard screaming. They were in one of the service areas, the kind you need a ID card to access.” Yoondae’s voice stayed hushed, but his fists balled as he recounted the story. “There were at least eight of them, and they had pipes and crowbars.”

“ _Gaeseki_ ,” Dr. Lee swore, her eyes fiery. “I found a needle mark in the back of his neck, too. All those men with pipes for one boy, and the cowards still poisoned him first. I don’t have the equipment to identify the drug, but there’s no sign he even fought back.”

Kyungsoo’s throat went tight, and he had to turn away from the bed, dragging in deep breaths to shove down the rage boiling in his gut. Yoondae gripped his shoulder in solidarity, silently waiting until he had calmed down enough to resume the conversation.

When he turned back, Kyungsoo avoided looking at the battered body on the bed. “So this was premeditated,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Access to a restricted area, weapons, a drug—this was no prison fight.”

Dr. Lee was nodding in agreement, but Yoondae looked troubled. “You think they had help from a guard?” he wondered.

“Worse than that,” Dr. Lee said darkly, worry deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. “I checked my prescription cabinet, just in case, and nothing’s missing, not even a syringe. That means someone from outside the prison with access to controlled substances is involved.”

Kyungsoo ran his fingers through his hair in aggravation. “Someone paid off a guard and hired a bunch of thugs with nothing to lose to drug Yeol and beat him up?” This was too well planned for there to be any other explanation, but it made no sense. “He’s in jail. Why go through all this trouble?”

“They were definitely trying to kill him,” Yoondae said, conviction heating his voice. “They scattered when I got there, but I saw enough.”

“He’s lucky,” Dr. Lee concurred. “It should have been impossible defend himself with all those drugs in his system, but he’s got a hell of a survival instinct. Look,” she gestured to the seeping gauzed wrapped loosely around Yeol’s arms. Kyungsoo swallowed queasily when he realized they weren’t really the right shape. “He was protecting his head, so they completely pulverized the bones trying to bash his skull in. He managed to protect his left side too- they couldn’t crush his heart, so they destroyed everything else. If he doesn’t spend the rest of his life living out of a tube, it’ll be a modern day miracle.”

“Why is he still here?!” Kyungsoo was aghast. “He should be in a real hospital!”

Dr. Lee swatted the bedside irritably, her frown deepening even further. “One of my other patients had a heart attack late last night, so the prison ambulance is gone. I called the Seoul National University Hospital--they’re the closest place that has even a prayer of saving his life and maybe his limbs. All of their ambulances were out on an highway accident, but they promised to send the next one available to us. That was an hour ago.”

Kyungsoo tapped his fingers against the bed rails, thinking. He could call in an officer-down, but the entire precinct would be right on the heels of that ambulance, and the cops had precious little love for Yeol. They might let him die out of spite and call it good riddance. He bowed his head, racking his brain for alternatives, coming up empty. “Can we use my car?”

“Only if you want to finish the job those bastards started,” Dr. Lee said drily.

Yoondae grimaced.”If whoever ordered this wants Yeol dead- they won’t leave him alone once they know he’s alive.”

Kyungsoo swore under his breath. Another thing to worry about.

“Here’s what I suggest.” Dr. Lee held up both hands to still any further conversation. “Yeol is stable for now. I don’t know why he’s not dead yet — maybe he’s just a strong kid, maybe all those demon-worshipping rumors were true. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Eventually, the ambulance will get here, and I’ll go with him personally to the hospital. The only thing we can do now is wait and watch over him.”

“I can’t stay,” Yoondae told them apologetically, shoulders slumping. “I took off two days this week already to come here and help out a couple of inmates. If I neglect my paying clients, my boss won’t let me come here at all.”

It was Kyungsoo’s turn to clap Yoondae on the back. “It’s okay. You were here when you needed to be. There’s not much you can do now anyway.”

Dr. Lee stifled a yawn. “If you’re staying, Mr. Do, I’m going to take a nap. Keeping this boy alive is going to be a marathon, not a sprint.” Without waiting for Kyungsoo’s reply, the older woman vanished into a small curtained-off area that filled the other corner of the infirmary. After a moment, the two men she left behind could hear the creaking of cot springs as she settled into bed.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Yoondae said, turning to face Kyungsoo. “Something feels off about all ths, but I feel better about leaving knowing you’re staying with Yeol.”

“I’m surprised you’re so concerned,” Kyungsoo’s lips quirked up, his black sense of humor firing up. “If he dies, you’ll be my only friend. Think of the benefits.”

Yoondae chuckled tiredly as he shrugged on his jacket. “I want to be able to leave you behind when I become rich and powerful. I can’t do that and keep my soul if I’m your only friend.” His face grew serious again as he looked into Kyungsoo’s eyes. “You’re the only one Yeol trusts. Don’t abandon him. No matter what happens.”

  —

Yoondae slyly scheduled a meeting with a rich money launderer claiming innocence, giving him an excuse to return to the prison after a couple of hours. But their fortune ended there. In the late morning, a burst water main in the next neighborhood stranded the promised ambulance when it was just minutes away, then a building demolition gone wrong on the other side of the city forced them to leave. As Dr. Lee argued with the emergency dispatchers on the phone, Kyungsoo packed up his things.

“This is ridiculous,” he told Yoondae. “I’m going to the precinct. Let me know if anything happens.”

Kyungsoo took a long pull from his coffee, black, as he strode into the airy top floor office where the property crimes squad was housed. He collapsed heavily into his chair at his desk, looking blearily at the stack of paperwork the file clerk had left in his inbox. It had taken some armtwisting, but he’d finally convinced dispatch to send another ambulance to the prison. He was exhausted, and it wasn’t even noon. Jongdae, looking fresh and well-rested at his own desk, cocked his head quizzically when he saw Kyungsoo’s condition.

“You should lay off the soju bombs on worknights.” he quipped. “It ages you.”

“Yoondae called,” Kyungsoo said sourly, gratified at the astonishment that flashed across his partner’s face. “I was at the prison all night.”

Jongdae’s expression darkened. “The prison?” he repeated.

Too late Kyungsoo remembered how much Jongdae disliked Yoondae’s choice of charities. Finding out his partner and his brother had been hovering by Yeol’s bedside all night would not go over well, especially after yesterday’s confrontation.

“Someone paid one of the prison gangs to beat another inmate to death.” Kyungsoo told him, opting for a sanitized version of the truth. ”He survived, but there’s evidence that he tried to call the police first. So Yoondae called me for advice.”

“Why didn’t he call me?” Jongdae asked, a little peeved. “I outrank you.”

“Would you have gone up to Nambu at three in the morning?” Kyungsoo challenged.

Jongdae rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Well then.”

Jongdae tossed a scrunched up ball of paper at his face. “Why did the convict try to call the police. Was he an informant?”

Kyungsoo unfolded the scrunched paper and began smoothing it back out into a usable sheet. “It’s not your case. Why do you care?” That earned him two more rapid fire balls of paper to the face. “Okay okay!” he surrendered, shielding his eyes. “I’ll tell you!”

“Cheeky little squid,” Jongdae muttered, putting down the half formed ball in his hands. “Spill.”

Kyungsoo pulled out the small notebook he carried in his back pocket and flipped it open the musings he’d scrawled while watching over Yeol. “It was a well-planned hit,” he told Jongdae, counting down the points on his fingers. “First, the gang had weapons that weren’t easy to get but still untraceable. Secondly, access to an restricted area where they wouldn’t be recorded. Third, a sedative from outside of the prison. Plus, I’m pretty sure someone paid off at least one guard. Beating someone to death is loud. Whoever ordered the hit wouldn’t put in this much effort just to have it interrupted by scheduled patrol.”

Jongdae tapped a finger to his lips. “It was a probably a gang hit. The inmate pissed off someone powerful on the outside, so they got their lackeys on the inside to take care of him. Happens all the time.”

Kyungsoo wrinkled his nose at the suggestion. “There’s no previous affiliation to gangs or organized crime of any kind. He’s a lone wolf.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t step on somebody’s toes,” Jongdae said absently, his attention drifting back to his paperwork. “Your perp could be anyone. Waste of time.”

Kyungsoo leaned over his desk and snagged the page Jongdae was working on. “If somebody went through this much trouble to kill him, they’ll try again once they realize he’s not dead,” he insisted. “We need to figure out who they are so we can protect the inmate.”

Jongdae snatched the form back, his brows knitting in annoyance. “Tell them to put the guy in solitary confinement where nobody can get to him. It’s not our problem.”

“How can you not care? Someone might get murdered, and we could’ve prevented it.”

“You and Yoondae are so concerned about the trash society has literally thrown away that you’re neglecting the real citizens who are innocent and law-abiding.”

Kyungsoo was struck speechless, the word trash rattling around in his skull, bashing apart any coherent thoughts. Trash. He looked down at his phone, heart pounding, staring at that number in the call-reject list. The number he hadn’t put there.

“You think criminals are trash?” His own voice sounded strange and far away.

Jongdae set down his pen with a sigh. “Look, when people throw away empty beer cans, they expect them to be mashed up, cleaned, and recycled into something new and better. But until those empty cans come out the other other side of the processing plant as shiny new aluminum, they’re just piles of garbage.”

Nose flaring, Kyungsoo held up his phone, his fingers shaking a little with the force of his heartbeat. “Did you put the prison’s number in my reject list?” he asked, his voice cracking a little with the effort of not yelling.

Jongdae grimaced, then jumped as Kyungsoo slammed the phone down on the table, the screen crunching with the force of the impact.

“Aiish,” Jongdae muttered. “It was for your own good.”

Kyungsoo had a stapler cocked and ready to throw in his hand before his conscious brain could process the act, but an earsplitting siren shrieked through the station, startling him into dropping it. He clapped his hands over his ears as the deafening alarm wailed, meeting Jongdae’s equally confused gaze. The alarm cut out abruptly, and Kyungsoo tilted out of his chair as a high-pitched ringing and rolling vertigo replaced the horrible sound. He dabbed his fingers to his throbbing ears, surprised when they came away dry instead of covered in blood.

A patrol cop burst into the office, breathless. “The prison just blew up in a giant fireball!” he shouted, his voice high-pitched with hysteria. “Dispatch wants all available hands on scene to evacuate any survivors.” His message delivered, the man dashed out of the door to pass on the information.

Kyunsoo reeled with the news. He’d been there less than an hour ago. _What if he’d stayed._ A hand twisted in his collar and pulled him upright, until he was staring into a pair of eyes gone wild with emotion.

“Tell me Yoondae wasn’t there,” Jongdae begged, tears thickening his voice.

“Oh, no,” Kyungsoo breathed, and staggered against his desk as Jongdae pushed him away, running for the door. Kyungsoo followed as quickly as he could, careening from surface to surface as world spun around him.


	3. The Family You Choose III

                                          

They were forced to stop well before reaching the prison proper, the car wheels squealing in protest as Jongdae slammed on the brakes to avoid the blockade of emergency vehicles. The giant boiling column of smoke from the prison had been visible the moment they’d left the police station, and the black cloud had only grown as they’d driven closer. Other police officers responding to the dispatcher’s call climbed out of their cars alongside Jongdae and Kyungsoo, shielding their eyes with hands or hats to protect them from the gritty, ash-laden wind blown from the conflagration. Jongdae let out a forlorn cry and ran to the blockade.

“Where are the survivors?” he pleaded, latching onto one of the firefighters. “My _dongsaeng_ , where’s my brother?”

The firefighter gently peeled his coat out of his grip. “The whole place went up in seconds,” he said, pitching his voice loud enough that the growing crowd of responders could hear. “It’s too hot for us get any closer. We called in the airborne helitankers, but until they arrive, there’s nothing we can do.” Lowering his voice, he turned back to Jongdae. “We don’t expect any survivors. I’m sorry.”

Jongdae sagged to his knees, his face frozen in horror, one hand reaching out toward the prison, burning fiercely in the distance. Kyungsoo tried to step towards him, but his foot slid in the opposite direction, toward the blockade, toward the prison. Bewildered, he looked down as his feet took another step toward the mountain of flame and smoke, then another, unbidden, as if invisible hooks were buried in his flesh and the fisherman was reeling him in. No, not unbidden, Kyungsoo realized. Deep down, past consciousness and thought, he wanted to run into that fire. He needed to. Kyungsoo moved forward another step, feet dragging as his rational mind frantically battled whatever suicidal instincts were pulling him towards the fire.

_Yeol._ The name hit with a flash of clarity was like a blow to the chest, making his breath catch in his throat and his heart stutter painfully. _It’s not the fire pulling me in. Yeol is in there._

Another step, two, three, and then he was running, no longer fighting the powerful pull. _No-one could have survived this,_ rational Kyungsoo tried to reason with himself. He spun and dodged a firefighter who tried to tackle him, and slid over the hood of one of the cars forming the edge of the blockade. _Even the firefighters couldn’t get inside,_ logical Kyungsoo screeched as he pelted toward the prison, legs pumping, the conflagration’s searing heat already pressing against his skin. _This is suicide!_ sane Kyungsoo frothed, as he entered the outer parking lot, ash-choked air clogging his nose and throat, his clothes began to scorch. He hit the prison’s outer gate like a cannonball, smoking and blackened with soot. The steel gate tore like paper and Kyungsoo barrelled on, charging through door after door, trying to outrun the flames licking at his clothes as he ripped through the prison’s outer shell.

The tiny hooks that guided him spun him around as he crashed through the heavy reinforced barrier leading to the main cell block, and he skidded to a stop. Yeol was curled into a tiny ball just inside the entrance, charred and tattered, practically invisible. Kyungsoo didn’t take time to marvel at the luck of finding one unmoving person in the vast hellscape of the burning prison. With a banshee howl that was equal parts overwhelming triumph and excruciating pain, he slung Yeol over his back in a fireman’s carry and charged back the way he had come.

Kyungsoo didn’t stop running when he reached the outer door of the prison, emerging from the dark corridors boiling with caustic smoke into the scalding atmosphere thick with noxious combustion byproducts. Instead he drove himself towards the blockade, towards coolness and rest and sweet, sweet air. He blacked out before they made it out of the parking lot. When he came to himself again, he was lying in the middle of the road, black ooze dribbling from his mouth, spasming as his lungs seized from the poisons he’d inhaled, the prison crumbling to its death in the distance. Every inch of his skin screamed with torment, and his fingers scrabbled at his eyes, trying to claw out the pools of acid eating into his skull. Shadows fell over him, voices shouted meaningless words, and a sharp sting in the crook of his arm blossomed into cool, insistent wave, washing him away from his body and into a sea of silence.

— 

Thought returned slowly, awareness trickling into the cool void where Kyungsoo floated. The slow, rhythmic whoosh of air into his lungs pulled him closer to consciousness, breath by breath. Soft warbles of medical equipment filtered into the void, and his eyes cracked open painfully, feeling gritty and swollen. He gagged on the tube in his throat, coughing a few times before the reflex settled and he could breathe normally again. His eyes watered even adjusting to the practically lightless room, but remembering the horrible pain from before, being able to see at all flooded him with relief. He wiggled his fingers and toes experimentally, and, when not assaulted by waves of pain, he cautiously raised one hand from the pillowy surface it was resting on and waved it slowly in front of his face. His hands were red and cracked with what looked like the worst case of sunburn ever, and gauze covered the rest of his arms. He gingerly touched his face, and found it lightly wrapped with gauze as well. A bit of judicious probing around the top of his head revealed that his hair was nearly 3cm shorter and crispy, but, thankfully, his hairline was otherwise intact.

Kyungsoo relaxed and laid unmoving for several long minutes, maybe even hours, luxuriating in the sensation of being alive. Finally, though, he had had enough of the intubation tube and he thumbed the nurse’s call button. The woman materialized with near instantaneous speed, swooping into the room and peering at the chart hanging from the foot of the bed with a penlight.

“Aigoo,” she cooed, leaning over one side of the bed to the other as she checked the instruments, filling Kyungsoo’s nose with the mild, sweet scent of talcum powder. “Kyungsoo, _pabo_ , you’re a brave, lucky idiot. Let’s get this tube out.”

After few terrible seconds that felt like drowning, the nurse pulled the tube free of Kyungsoo’s throat, and he indulged himself in a bout of forceful, throat clearing coughs. The angel-nurse tipped a straw into his mouth, and Kyungsoo drained the cup of water dry without taking a breath, exhaling with satisfaction as he leaned back into the pillows. The nurse adjusted a few dials on his IV, and fished his chart from the holder at the foot of the bed.

“How…long,” Kyungsoo croaked at her after a few tries, his voice rusty.

The nurse looked up from the notes she was scribbling in his chart. “Most of the day,” she informed him, her tone calm and reassuring. “It’s just a few minutes before midnight.”

“My…friend?” Despite the calming effects of whatever was in the IV, a bit of panic crept into his voice. He dimly remembered carrying someone through the prison, but logical Kyungsoo was back, nagging about excellent possibility that he’d risked his life to rescue a corpse.

The nurse finished her notes, and re-shelved the chart with a light clatter. “That boy was alive when he got here, and that’s all thanks to you. When the doctor does his rounds in the morning, you can ask him all the details. But now, you sleep.”

The nurse breezed out of the room without a second glance, even though Kyungsoo was itching to interrogate her about Yeol. He toyed with the idea of pressing the button to call her back, but the IV drugs were excellent and stronger than his willpower. He drifted off between one moment and the next into a dreamless sleep.

Kyungsoo didn’t remember talking to the doctor that came by in the early morning shift, but the nurse who did the mid-morning checks appeared with a wheelchair, so whatever blurry ramblings he’d been able to string together had been coherent enough to win him a visit to Yeol’s room. Standing up and sitting down, even with a fresh dose of morphine, was an ordeal Kyungsoo wished he didn’t have to repeat. If he hadn’t been desperate to see Yeol’s condition for himself, he would’ve ordered the nurse to knock him out with whatever was handy and put him back in bed. The wheelchair jaunt was laughably brief; Yeol was only two rooms away. The nurse wheeled him past the uniformed guard at the door and parked him at the arsonist’s bedside, promising to come back when he rang.

Kyungsoo surveyed the person he’d literally gone to hell and back for, and tsked to himself silently. Cleaned up and laid out, Yeol looked even worse than Kyungsoo remembered. His skin, wherever visible underneath the thin hospital gown, was mottled black and purple, and bandages swathed his head and bulked around his ribcage. Plaster encased one leg and both arms from fingers to shoulder, and Kyungsoo snorted in disgust at the silver handcuff linking the wrist of one cast to the bed rail. Yeol’s hair was darker than its normal coppery shade and singed at the ends, but, unlike Kyungsoo, that was the extent of the damage done by the fire. There were no burns, no blisters, no other sign that he’d nearly burned to death. Kyungsoo had come expecting to see a barbecued inmate, but instead Yeol was only battered, and lightly fried.

He stayed by Yeol’s bedside for the rest of the day, shedding a few silent tears as he stood vigil for Yoondae. His best friend’s dedication to protecting Yeol had cost him his life; he wasn’t going to let that sacrifice go to waste. With Yeol outside of the prison’s security and vulnerable, this was a perfect time for another attempt on his life. When the nurse returned in the evening to take him back to his room, he went without complaint. When she left, he climbed out of the bed on his own, wincing and cursing at the pain it caused his burns. Handicapped by stiffness and fear of overexertion, he hobbled between his room and Yeol’s during the guard’s bathroom break, dragging his tower of liquid relief. His appearance in the corridor earned a disapproving hiss from the nurse on duty, but she didn’t try to stop him, nor did she inform the guard of the unauthorized entry in his absence.

Kyungsoo propped himself up awkwardly in the visitor’s sofa in Yeol’s room and settled in for a long uncomfortable night. He had just started to doze off when the soft sound of the door sliding open jolted him awake. A hurried glance at the clock above the bed showed that it wasn’t yet time for the nurse’s rounds, but the shadowy figure that entered the room headed straight for Yeol’s bed. Light glinted off of a syringe in the intruder’s hand, and Kyungsoo, attempting to leap across the room and tackle him, tumbled from the couch to the floor, bringing his own IV stand crashing to the ground with enough clatter to wake the dead. The intruder bolted from the room, dropping the syringe in his haste.

The nurses rushed in a few moments later. They exclaimed in horror over the syringe of air Kyungsoo retrieved from the floor, knowing the air bubble would’ve caused a sudden death if it had been injected into an artery. The head nurse explained, in the midst of profuse apologies, that they’d been called away to assist another ICU patient who’d inexplicably started having seizures. The timing, as well as the complete disappearance of the guard, confirmed Kyungsoo’s suspicion that the hospital was not a safe place for Yeol to be. There was no telling what lengths this mysterious grudge-holder would go to to kill the arsonist, and a ward full of medical staff was not the place to mount a defense. They could be injured if they got in the way of another murder attempt, or, for the right price, they could turn into assassins themselves, like the guard. Without backup, staying here was gambling with Yeol’s life.


	4. The Family You Choose IV

The rest of the night was quiet in the ward, but the arrival of dawn brought a new worry, personified by the Kyungsoo’s squad leader. Team Leader Lee entered the room without knocking, his typical rumpled polo and khakis replaced with a black suit and tie. Kyungsoo struggled to stand and bow, but Team Leader Lee held up a hand.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he said shortly, shuffling to Yeol’s bedside. He plucked the handcuff attached to the bed railing. “I heard what happened last night, but I didn’t expect to find you here, babysitting.”

“The department didn’t send a replacement guard, and it wasn’t safe to leave him alone,” Kyungsoo explained. “I never had the chance to file an official report, but this wasn’t the first attempt on Yeol’s life.”

Lee fiddled with this tie, folding and refolding the end, a sure sign he was working up to say something uncomfortable. Kyungsoo waited, the silence growing tense, until, finally, the team leader smoothed out his now-wrinkled tie, and leaned on the bed rail.

“Kyungsoo,” he began, “Have you looked out the window lately?” Kyungsoo glanced at the blank featureless walls. The ward was on the interior of the hospital, none of the rooms had windows. “Watched the news?” Kyungsoo shook his head, the television hanging quietly in the corner, its power cord dangling. The team leader nodded to himself, as if he’d confirmed something.

“What are you trying to say, sir?” Kyungsoo asked, anxiety beginning to fizz in his stomach.

Team Leader Lee pushed himself away from the bed and settled himself on the sofa at Kyungsoo’s side, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. “The death toll was released last night. The entire segregation wing burned down, and sixty-seven people died- inmates, staff, and one visitor who had the worst timing in the world.” Kyungsoo’s heart plummeted at the news. It was one thing to know there were no survivors, but hearing the true number, knowing Yoondae was one of them, was crushing.

“Outside, the hospital is surrounded by protestors,” Lee continued. “The victims, even though most of them were the scum of the earth, still had families, and they’re all out there, hoping he,” Lee jerked his chin in Yeol’s direction, “will just die quietly during the night. To make things worse, that fanclub is on every station, squealing about unlawful imprisonment.“ He shook his head, chuckling bitterly. “We can’t even pin this one on him either. Preliminary investigations are pointing to a leak in the gas line, if you can believe that.”

“Do you believe it, sir?” Kyungsoo asked carefully.

“Not a chance,” Lee scoffed angrily, straightening. “An arsonist just happens to be the only survivor of a fire? This was obviously an escape attempt gone wrong. We just need time to prove it.”

“But he was injured,” Kyungsoo argued. “He couldn’t have attempted anything in his condition.”

“So you say, but you’re not a doctor. He could have been faking it.”

Kyungsoo could only flail in Yeol’s direction, indicating the multiple casts, the layers of cuts and bruises. “Faking?!” he managed.

“The injuries he has now could have been sustained during the fire,” Team Leader Lee said stubbornly. “Plus, the mere fact that you were able to find him at all is evidence that he was trying to escape.”

“How?”

“You were inside for barely five minutes. Even if you were an Olympic athlete, you couldn’t have made it all the way to the cell block and back in that time. Ah, right,” the team leader snapped his fingers.”Even if he was in the infirmary, like you claim, that’s even further from the entrance than the main cell block!”

Kyungsoo’s hands balled into fists on his knees as he pressed his lips together. Admitting that Yeol had been nowhere near the infirmary when he’d found him would just be confirming everyone’s suspicions, and he couldn’t explain how Yeol had managed to get all the way to the entrance in his condition. On the other hand, the team leader’s version of events fit almost perfectly. Blaming Yeol took barely any effort at all. It would just be the latest entry in the long list of crimes--another pile of ruins, another roomful of corpses. Then, if Yeol died, it was only the universe righting itself after so many wrongs.

“That guard would have done us all a favor if he’d succeeded,” Team Leader Lee pounded the sofa arm with conviction, his words echoing the direction of Kyungsoo’s morbid thoughts. “The families would get their justice, and the police can stop being dragged around by the nose looking for evidence.” He threw a dark look at the hospital bed, and Kyungsoo winced, wishing there was a curtain to shield Yeol from the ill-wishing in that gaze.

“He would have been dead already if I wasn’t here,” Kyungsoo admitted, anguish making his voice crack. _Am I the only one who wants Yeol to live?_ He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to organize his thoughts. A warm hand landed on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze.

“Yoondae’s funeral is today,” the team leader told him, his tone full of sympathy and understanding. “You should go. Jongdae needs a friend right now. He’s got nobody else.”

_And while you’re gone, our problem will be taken care of._ The assumption was unspoken, but unmistakable.

It would be so easy. Kyungsoo would only need to turn his back for a moment. Besides,he couldn’t stay by Yeol’s side forever. There were so many knives pointed in Yeol’s direction right now- the cops, the victim’s families, the mystery assassin—one of them would succeed eventually. Maybe it was better to walk away now. The choice might haunt him for a little while, but he could convince himself that staying wouldn’t have made a difference. It would only hurt the people he cared about. He opened his eyes, looking at Yeol lying alone and helpless in the middle of the room. _Just answer when I call._

Kyungsoo rose slowly, painfully, from his seat, sliding away from his team leader’s comforting hand, watching the man’s face shift from sympathy to disbelief. “Tell Jongdae I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo forced the words out like they didn’t taste like bile, like every breath didn’t hurt.

\--

After that, the doctor was the only person to visit the room, the nurses presumably having been warned to stay away. Another guard was stationed at Yeol’s door, but Kyungsoo viewed him as more of a threat than a reassurance. He took up permanent residence in Yeol’s room, sleeping on that uncomfortable sofa, eating at Yeol’s bedside, chatting for hours about nothing to his silent roommate to avoid his own thoughts. Two days after his team leader’s visit, when Kyungsoo woke, the air, which had been hospital-grade-chilly when he fell asleep, was toasty warm as if someone had lit a furnace in the middle of the room. Kyungsoo shrugged off the now-stifling blanket draped over him and stretched gingerly, trying not to disturb any of his burns. To his surprise, for the first time since the fire, no part of him stung or itched when he moved. He stood carefully, testing out the steadiness of his legs, bouncing on his toes. He twisted from side to side experimentally, squatting low and pulling his knees to his chest to work out the kinks in his joints. He was still a bit stiff in places from sleeping on chairs, but otherwise, he felt back to normal. When he rose to his feet again, he realized Yeol was watching him, a dopey smile on his face.

Kyungsoo scrambled to the side of the bed, but pulled up short, wary of jostling him even slightly. “How do you feel?” he blurted, hands hovering in the air, scanning the inmate’s face for any sign of distress. “Any pain? The doctor wasn’t sure you’d ever wake up…”

Yeol’s smile wobbled. “Kyungsoo-yah,” he said, his resonant voice reduced to the barest whisper. “You came.” A tear dampened the edge of the bandage wrapped around his head.

Kyungsoo had to turn his back for a moment and take a breath, blinking fiercely against the tingling in his own eyes. When he felt like he could control his face, he turned around, teeth bared in his best facsimile of a bright smile. “Of course I did,” he said, but Yeol was still crying, his bandages growing soggy. To escape the moment of sappiness, Kyungsoo grabbed the plastic jug of water from the bedside table and started to pour a cupful, his hands shaking a little. The water left in the jug trickled out, barely enough to cover the bottom of the cup.

He stared at the basically empty cup for a moment, flustered. “I’ll go fill this up,” he promised, heading for the door.

“No, wait!” Yeol’s voice was high-pitched with sudden panic, and the handcuffs encircling the cast on his arm clinked as he tried to reach out. “Don’t leave me here alone!”

Kyungsoo turned on his heel, the pitcher falling to his side, forgotten. That hunted look was back in Yeol’s eyes—the same one he’d seen in the prison after their last interview. Kyungsoo returned to the bed, putting away the pitcher and sitting carefully onto the side of the mattress. “Three nights ago, the guard tried to inject a syringe full of air into your IV line.” Yeol’s eyes widened, he didn’t seem stunned at the news that someone was making attempts on his life. “Whoever paid him also paid six inmates to beat you to death so it would look like a random prison fight. Am I right?” The tips of Yeol’s ears glowed red, the surest sign he was trying to hide something, so Kyungsoo knew he was on the right track. “This person was so determined to make you dead that they smuggled ketamine into the prison to make sure you couldn’t fight back. Tell me who it is.”

“Even if you know, you can’t do anything about it.” Yeol’s voice was flat, tired, so different from the animated person Kyungsoo was used to.

“I’m already doing something about it!” Kyungsoo scrubbed his hands through his hair in frustration and held out his bandaged arms. “I ran into a burning building to save you, when the firemen wouldn’t even go near! I stopped the guard from assassinating you. And just so they wouldn’t have another chance to kill you, I didn’t even go to Yoondae’s funeral.” Kyungsoo thumped his chest with his fist, the guilt eating away at him finally spilling out. “We grew up together like brothers, but I couldn’t even light incense for him. I let Jongdae cry alone.”

“Tell Jongdae I’m sorry.”

Hearing his own worthless words come back to him shocked Kyungsoo into momentary silence, and he looked down, struggling to breathe past the lump in his throat. Yeol moved his fingers so they brushed against Kyungsoo’s leg.

“I didn’t start that fire, but it was my fault Yoondae was there,” he said softly, “Not yours.”

Kyungsoo coughed and cleared his throat shakily. “A gas leak is nobody’s fault, and Yoondae chose to be there so he could protect you.”

“It was a bomb,” Yeol told him. “But history will remember it as a gas leak, because that’s how the militia works.”

 

Kyungsoo pressed his fingers to his temples, massaging in small circles, harder and harder until he was digging his knuckles into the side of his head. Some of what Yeol told him made sense - a shadowy organizations manipulating events behind the scenes was nothing new. But the thought that they’d blown up an entire building just for one person was too much to grasp. It sounded like the plan of a drama villain, not a sane, real-life course of action. What possible reason could they have for wanting Yeol dead that badly?

“Who are you?” Kyungsoo demanded. He stared down at Yeol, who had drifted off while Kyungsoo had been agonizing over the revelation he shared. He flicked him in the forehead lightly, and Yeol’s nose scrunched in his sleep. “I don’t even know your real name, but I keep saving your life.”

 


	5. The Family You Choose V

During the guard’s long midday break, guaranteed by a large cup of coffee sweetened with laxatives, Kyungsoo crept out of the room and sidled over to the nurse’s station. As luck would have it, his favorite angel-nurse was on duty. Her eyes widened in surprise when Kyungsoo slid into view, but stayed silent when Kyungsoo put his finger to his lips.

“The police are transferring the prisoner today,” Kyungsoo whispered, making a great show of keeping a wary eye out for witnesses. “Too many people know he’s here, and we don’t want to risk any violence in the hospital.”

“I haven’t heard anything about a transfer,” the nurse whispered back, reaching for a binder. “Are you using the helipad?”

_If only_ , Kyungsoo thought to himself. Out loud, he told her, “Nothing’s been documented officially. We’re using a ground transport, and I’ll be moving him there alone to keep things quiet. The full security detail is waiting outside of the hospital.”

“The attending still needs to authorize the transfer,” the nurse murmured, doubt creeping across her face. “I’m not sure the patient is stable enough to be moved right now.”

Kyungsoo leaned over the counter, lowering his voice even further. “We’ve been exaggerating his condition to keep the peace.” He glanced over his shoulder again, letting his real apprehension show. Everything up to this point had been pure fiction, but now a little nugget of truth was needed. “He’s awake.”

The nurse gasped in shock,her hands flying into the air, and Kyungsoo shushed her anxiously. “The doctor already knows, of course,” he rushed to explain. “That’s why we’re moving him as soon as possible. It’s only a matter of time before that crowd outside finds out about this.”

Kyungsoo’s angel-nurse, demonstrating further her heavenly origins, went pale, reacting to Kyungsoo’s little truth-bomb in exactly the right way. “Some might storm the hospital to get to him. So many people could get hurt!” Her voice rose at the last part and she covered her mouth in consternation. “You need to go now!” she mouthed.

Kyungsoo stood by nervously, biting his lip as the nurse delicately unhooked Yeol from his monitoring equipment and loaded him into a wheelchair. She moved slowly and was painstakingly gentle, but Yeol was still pale and sweating by the time she was done. He was stiff as a statue with both arms and his leg encased in plaster and a brace immobilizing his neck and spine, and his thinly pressed lips betrayed how uncomfortable he was. Kyungsoo took charge of the wheelchair as soon as the nurse stepped away, snapping a pair of handcuffs around the wrist of each cast and linking them to the wheelchair arms. That earned him a dirty look from Yeol, and Kyungsoo poked him in the forehead.

“Keep those eyes down, convict,” he ordered, throwing an uneasy glance at the nurse. One wrong move and their charade would fall apart. He bowed to her, thanking her for her help, and wheeled Yeol away as fast as he could move, practically jogging down the corridor to the elevator. The guard was out of commission, but his replacement could arrive any minute. He jabbed the elevator button seventeen times, eyes darting over the corridor, waiting for someone to recognize Yeol and sound the alarm, before the doors finally pinged open to admit them. Inside the elevator, Kyungsoo fumbled a dust mask from his pocket and slid it over Yeol’s face before jamming a surgeon’s cap over that distinctive mop of red hair. Yeol didn’t make a sound during the tense journey to the hospital’s main level as people got on and off the elevator. Nobody gave them a second glance, but Kyungsoo’s heart was pounding by the time they arrived at their floor.

He hastily wheeled Yeol towards the less-used visitor’s entrance, but when they were only steps away from the lobby, Yeol hissed suddenly, and Kyungsoo froze.

“Sweater vest,” Yeol’s voice was barely audible, and Kyungsoo knelt down to hear. “Sweater vest by the door.”

Kyungsoo surveyed the lobby, confused, before he spotted the nondescript, bespectacled man in a sweater vest lounging with a magazine by the main door. Kyungsoo studied the man, noting the mechanical speed of his page turning, and the way the thick rims of his glasses hid his eyes. Slowly, he stepped backwards, pulling Yeol back to the corridor and out of the man’s line of sight. Inquisitive Kyungsoo wanted to question Yeol’s ability to spot such an innocuous observer, but on-task Kyungsoo chalked it up to his years of evading law enforcement and squashed any further thoughts. He pulled out his phone and re-read the text from his father, studying the picture he’d sent of Kyungsoo’s car after leaving it in the hospital parking lot that morning. He thought he would feel worse about roping his family into a prison break, but for now he just needed everything to keep going according to plan. Stuffing the phone back into his pocket, he knelt beside the wheelchair again so Yeol could see him.

“You think we should make a break for it?” Kyungsoo suggested, unlocking the handcuffs as he spoke. “My car is in the third row from the door. Even if that guy calls for backup, we might make it if I run. If he chases us, I can take him.”

Yeol shook his head as strongly as he could. “The militia will just get your license number from the CCTV and track your car.”

Kyungsoo sneered. “Whatever this militia is, they aren’t the police. By the time they get access to the CCTV, we’ll be long gone.”

“We’ll never make it out of this neighborhood,” Yeol argued. “They could do something to slow us down, like mess with the traffic lights. One traffic jam, and we’d be trapped for hours, sitting ducks.”

Kyungsoo wanted to laugh off such an idea, except, for all he knew, these phantom assassins could have legions of hackers at their disposal. He knew nothing about their resources or capabilities, only that they were quite doggedly pursuing the goal of turning Yeol into a corpse. He chewed his lip pensively, scrubbing his face as he tried to think of a plan. His eyes wandered over to the elevator, and he snapped his fingers in excitement as a idea formed.

“We’ll try the underground parking structure,” Kyungsoo explained hurriedly, hopping to his feet. Back on the elevator, he pushed the unmarked button that would take them down to the lowest level. “You can’t get in or out without an employee ID, so there’s a chance no-one will be watching it. I’ll leave you down there, get my car, and we’ll make a clean getaway before anyone realizes you’re gone.” As soon as the elevator doors opened, Kyungsoo jogged them out into the dimly-lit lot, the smell of damp concrete and stale exhaust enveloping them. The winding ramp to the entrance of the lot was blocked only by an automated barrier— there wasn’t another soul in sight. Kyungsoo parked Yeol beside the barrier and hopped over it, giving it two taps. 

“I’ll be right back,” he promised, and Yeol’s eyes widened in disbelief as the cop began trotting up the ramp.

“You’re actually leaving me here?!” 

“Right back!” Kyungsoo repeated, rounding the corner.

“Yah! I don’t like this plan!” Yeol’s voice ricocheted off the walls as Kyungsoo picked up speed. The narrow road coiled on itself three times before opening up into cloudy daylight, and Kyungsoo paused only to orient himself before sprinting off to find his car.

The sleek blue hybrid, his pride and joy, was just where his father had described, and a brief patdown of the inside of the rear bumper revealed the keys. Kyungsoo threw a glance toward the hospital entrance as he climbed into his car and was gratified to see the observer in the same position, his back to the parking lot, attention focused on the lobby. The chants of protestors drifted through the air, and Kyungsoo grimaced in their direction as he slid behind the wheel. Short minutes later, he eased his car to a stop at the bottom of the staff parking lot ramp, his headlights illuminating Yeol’s glower.

Hauling the arsonist’s lanky, plasterbound form from the wheelchair into the front seat, fully reclined and jammed as far back as it would go, was accomplished with groans and cursing through gritted teeth. The wheelchair, folded up, was hastily stashed in the trunk. 

“I can’t believe you left me there,” Yeol grumbled, awkwardly trying adjust the rolled up blanket Kyungsoo had tucked under his broken leg.

“It was temporary,” Kyungsoo said absently as he guided the car out of the underground lot. “Right now we have a bigger problem to deal with.” He coasted to the last row of cars in the hospital’s lot, squinting at the line of protestors blocking the way out. As they sat there, another car squeezed its way out of the lot, but not before getting a thorough once-over.

“Who are all those people?” There was a low whirr as Yeol raised his seat higher, peeking over the dashboard.

“Keep your head down,” Kyungsoo warned. “Those are the families of all the people who died in the prison fire, and probably a few from your other fires as well. They’ve been campaigning to have the hospital discontinue your treatment and remove all life support.”

Yeol made a face. “So much for my faith in humanity.”

“They’re harassing everyone that enters or leaves - there’s no chance we get out of this parking lot without someone recognizing you. Or me, for that matter.”

“Run ‘em down,” Yeol suggested, which Kyungsoo didn’t bother acknowledging.

“We need some kind of diversion,” he mused out loud.

Yeol’s seat whirred a little higher, and he craned his neck to see the protestors. “Do you see anyone wearing red?”

Kyungsoo frowned at the weird request. He could see hundreds of people, most of them wearing black funeral clothes and white bands on their head or arms. He climbed out the car, standing on tiptoe to see over the top of the sea of cars, scanning the vast ring of people surrounding the hospital. A flash of color caught his attention, and he squinted, trying to make out the source, but it was too far away. He took a picture of the little blot of color with his phone and climbed back into his seat to show Yeol.

“I can’t see that far, but I think there’s someone wearing red,” he told him, holding up the phone so Yeol could see the picture. Kyungsoo tried zooming in, but it only turned the blot into a larger cluster of bright red pixels. “What’s so important about it?”

“Dial this number,” Yeol instructed, and Kyungsoo, bemused by the non-sequitur but willing to play along, complied as Yeol listed out a phone number from memory. Kyungsoo switched his phone into speaker mode, and they both listened intently as the phone rang. On the fourth ring, a girl’s voice answered breathlessly, nearly drowned out by angry chanting in the background.

“What?!” she demanded rudely, and Kyungsoo’s eyebrows rose at her tone.

“Minji-yah!” Yeol drawled. “It’s me!”

There was a long, drawn out pause. “ _O…Oppa?_ ”

Yeol beamed at the phone. “I knew you’d know my voice.”

“Oppaaaa!!”

Kyungsoo eyes watered as he dropped the phone in Yeol’s lap, plugging his ears against the intensity of the squeal. “Why is she screaming?” he complained, when she paused for breath. Yeol waggled his eyebrows in response, his grin growing even wider.

“Oppa, you’re alive!” Minji rejoiced, the chanting in the background fading, replaced by a new chorus of excited squeals.

“Are the rest of my Lighters with you?” Yeol guessed, and the phone buzzed against his cast with the resulting screams of affirmation.

Kyungsoo rolled his eyes in disgust. “It’s your _fanclub?_ ”

“Minji,” Yeol continued, ignoring Kyungsoo pantomimed gagging, “I need your help.”

“Oppa saranghae!” a different voice bellowed into the phone, followed by the sound of a swift slap.

“Quiet! Oppa is talking.” Minji ordered, her voice stern. “What do you need?”

Barely five minutes passed before a roar rose from the crowd, and all of the protestors blocking their way out began stampeding across the parking lot to the opposite side of the hospital. Kyungsoo whipped the blanket from under Yeol’s leg and flung it over his head before pulling his own shirt over his face. The car rocked a little as the outraged wave of people shoved their way past, gunning for the FreeYeol girls. As soon as the path was clear, Kyungsoo threw the car into drive and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a layer of rubber behind. Once they’d made a couple of blocks away with no sign of anyone following, he pounded the steering wheel in exultation. 

“It worked!” he crowed. “I don’t know what those crazy girls did, but it worked!”

Yeol fought his way free of the blanket.”First of all, OW,” he said indignantly. “Second, of course it worked. My Lighters know how to start a fire.” He chuckled at his own cleverness. 

“Will they be okay, though?” Kyungsoo asked, looking back, a bit worried as he remembered the rage in the crowd. “There were a lot of people chasing them.”

“They’ve been doing this for years, remember? If the cops couldn’t catch them, a few angry housewives won’t be able to either.” Yeol smirked to himself. “Minji is a sneaky girl. My type.”

“You should marry her if you like her so much,” Kyungsoo scoffed, and Yeol’s face lit up with mischief.

“She’d be much happier to know you were helping me,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I told them we’re a couple.”

Kyungsoo wailed in horror, fingers clawed on the steering wheel as he drove out of the city, Yeol cackling his head off by his side.


	6. Obligations We Inherit I

                                          

Jongdae sat on the floor in the middle of his darkened apartment, the television flashing light and shadow across the room, ghosts from another world. A photo album sat on the floor in front of him, thick with a lifetime of pictures that he couldn’t bring himself to look at. He cradled an urn in his lap, ashes from the prison that the fire fighters had collected to give to all of the families. It was probably just a jar filled with charred mortar and burnt toilet paper. But he held it tightly, in case one speck of it might have once been Yoondae. He wanted to cry, to weep and scream and rage for his little brother, but the grief was too hard and heavy for that. So he sat.

It was hours, maybe days, before the news penetrated the leaden haze surrounding him, and longer still before it made any sense.

_Escape!_ The television anchors were breathless with excitement, speculating amongst themselves about the methods used, the planning involved, the implications for the next election. They deemed nothing unworthy of analysis, poring over grainy CCTV footage “just in!” from the hospital, finger-wagging at the victorious tone of the latest FreeYeol viral video, replaying footage of the smoking ruins of the prison over and over. They heaped scorn on every part of the investigation, ruthlessly attacking the police and slinging mud at everyone from hospital security to the mayor of Seoul. 

But, to Jongdae, it was all just meaningless white noise. To Jongdae, the only thing that mattered was the video captured by the outdated cameras in the hospital’s staff lot. Only a handful of fuzzy frames showed anything of value-a blurred wheelchair and its white smudge of a passenger, his black-clad accomplice, and that too-familiar blue car. The press was practically frothing at the mouth at the police’s refusal to release the accomplice’s identity, but Jongdae didn’t need confirmation. Even if he could convince himself that the car in the CCTV wasn’t the car he’d ridden in countless times, Jongdae couldn’t mistake the accomplice’s narrow shoulders, the way he stood, or how he kept adjusting the cap hiding his face like it wasn’t shoved all the way down to his ears.

_“Kyungsoo can’t move yet,” Team Leader Lee had told him at the funeral. “If he could, nothing would have kept him away.”_ Nothing. A spark of anger kindled in Jongdae’s chest. 

Carefully settling Yoondae’s urn by his side, Jongdae flipped open the photo album’s heavy cover, releasing the dusty scent of history. The first photo was of the three of them— Jongdae, Yoondae, and Kyungsoo— all in their primary school uniforms, giggling conspiratorially over the popsicles dripping berry-red down their hands. He began turning the pages one by one, remembering— the constant schoolyard antics, the countless nights spent doing their homework together, the younger two shoving cake in his face after the college entrance exam, his pride when Yoondae passed the bar exam, his elation when Kyungsoo followed him into the police force. In the album’s last photo, Yoondae and Kyungsoo beamed up at him together, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, the medal for arresting the Virus shining on the breast of Kyungsoo’s uniform. The headline of the newspaper article tucked behind the photo was triumphant— ‘Young Hero Ends Arsonist’s Plague!.’

“Investigators Refuse to Identify Accomplice!” scrolled beneath the news anchors as they ranted aboutpolice incompetence. 

Jongdae rose shakily to his feet, leaning on the wall, nerves tingling as blood rushed back into his limbs. He hobbled slowly into his small kitchenette and rustled through the drawers until he found a bowl and a pack of matches. Settling heavily back into his place, he arranged the bowl and photo album in front of Yoondae’s urn. He gently peeled the medal photo from its protective plastic sleeve and dropped it into the bowl along with the article.

“I’m fine,” he said to the urn. “Don’t hang around here because you think I’ll be lonely. Sleep well.” He struck the match and held it over the bowl, his hand only shaking a little. “Take these memories with you.” 

Tears blurred his vision as he hugged his knees to his chest, watching Kyungsoo’s face blacken and dissolve into ash.

—

The thin wisps of smoke were just starting to dissipate when a knock sounded at Jongdae’s door, startling him. He hastily wiped his eyes and struggled to his feet again. The door swung open to reveal Team Leader Lee, and the spark of anger flared. He tried to slam the door shut, but the older man wedged himself into the door frame.

“Let me in, kid,” he grunted, his face turning red with the effort of holding the door open.

Jongdae let go of the door in annoyance, and the team leader stumbled into the apartment. He coughed, waving at the smoky air as he took in the headlines still flashing on the television, the photo album, and Jongdae’s tiny bonfire.

“So you’ve heard the news,” Lee said, rubbing the back of his neck. “About the funeral...”

“Leave,” Jongdae said flatly.

Lee scuffed at the ground with one foot, hands deep in his pockets. “I need to know if Kyungsoo has contacted you in any way.” 

Jongdae shoved him, hard, and the team leader collapsed against the door, only narrowly managing to stay upright. A scowl spread across his face as he regained his feet. “Are you crazy?” 

Jongdae kicked his team leader squarely in the chest, launching him into the hallway where he crashed into the opposite wall. Lee whirled around with a roar, fist raised, but a cane whipped into the air in front of face, forcing him backwards again in surprise.

“Sorry to interrupt,” an old man limped between Jongdae and the furious cop. “But I came to have a word with the young one.” He lowered his cane and patted Lee on the shoulder. “So I need his jaw intact.”

Jongdae stared at the man, a memory from his father’s funeral resurfacing— the unfamiliar ajusshi who came and cried with them then vanished without leaving so much as a name.

Lee brushed aside the old man’s hand. “You’re interfering in police business,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Move aside.”

To Jongdae’s surprise, the elder pulled a wallet from his pocket and held it open in front of the team leader’s face. Lee’s eyes widened. 

“Director Choi, I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he bowed, hands clasped in contrition. 

Jongdae craned his neck curiously for a look at the old man’s credentials, but the wallet disappeared back into his suit with surprising speed.

“I’ve already spoken with the police commissioner,” Director Choi told Lee. “I’ll handle everything from here. I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”

“But I-” Lee’s eyes darted between Jongdae and the director, clearly taken aback by whatever he’d seen in that wallet, but he bowed in acquiescence. “I’ll be going then.” He shot Jongdae one last glare over his shoulder before rounding the corner.

Director Choi turned back to Jongdae. “Now then, how about we take that misplaced anger inside for a chat?”

Jongdae poured the director a glass of water, watching suspiciously as the old man settled himself comfortably on the low couch, cane across his knees. 

“Having a little ceremony?” the director asked when he handed him the glass, pointing to the bowl of burnt paper in the middle of the floor. Jongdae hastily sat in front of it, hiding the bowl behind his back, unwilling to share something so private with a complete stranger.

“Who are you?” he asked, changing the subject. “I’ve seen you before.”

“Yes,” Choi leaned back in his seat. “I attended your father’s funeral five years ago. It’s a tragedy young Yoondae followed him so soon. He was a bright boy, very much like your father.”

Jongdae frowned. “You knew Yoondae well?” He thought he knew all of his brother’s friends and co-workers.

“My organization has a contract with his law firm,” Choi said. “When I learned that the son of my old friend was working there, I made sure that he worked on all of our cases.” 

“You’re a scientist…like my father?” Jongdae had never been very interested in his father’s work, but his father had never gone out of his way to share details either.

Choi smiled and nodded, pulling his wallet from his jacket. “We both studied the spread of disease. I was the epidemiologist looking at the patterns and he was the microbiologist.” He flipped it open and showed Jongdae the contents. On one side, a simple business card read, _‘Associate Director Kangshin Choi, PhD, National Intelligence Service.’_ Opposite the card sat a decades-old picture, the much-younger director and Jongdae’s father posing together in front of the headquarters of the World Health Organization. Choi lingered fondly over the picture before tucking the wallet back into his pocket. “We made such a good team in school that we stayed together all the way to the end.”

_He was a spy._ Now Jongdae understood Team Leader Lee’s earlier deference and retreat, but this raised even more questions.

“Why did you want Yoondae?” The NIS probably had the best lawyers in the country at its disposal. Jongdae loved his little brother, but he wasn’t such a genius that the associate director would need him by his side.

“It wasn’t nepotism,” Choi assured him, anticipating the direction of Jongdae’s thoughts. “A lawyer as open-minded and compassionate as Yoondae is a rare find, and necessary for our work.”

“But why?” Jongdae repeated, frustration making him petulant.

“The details are classified.” Choi’s eyes gleamed. “Unless you work for me.” 

“Work for you?” Jongdae said in disbelief. “Join the NIS? Right now?” His head was spinning. “Is this the reason you came? To recruit me?”

“Say yes.” Director Choi leaned forward, urgency creeping into his voice, as he gestured to the urn by Jongdae’s side.“I know you’re in mourning. But I need your help.”

Jongdae looked away. He was curious about Yoondae’s project, but not enough to become a spy. Secrets and daggers in the dark held no allure, especially not after Kyungsoo’s betrayal. “I’m not interested.”

“It could be good for you to finish something Yoondae started,” Choi insisted. “Think of it as getting some closure.”

“Not interested.” Jongdae repeated. “I’m dealing with everything fine on my own.”

“Really?” Choi countered. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve been sitting here in the dark for days, and now you’re burning pictures of the only family you had. That is not a healthy pattern.”

Jongdae swallowed the first thing he wanted to say and took a moment to let the fire in his chest calm. “I appreciate your concern,” he bit out, climbing to his feet. “But I am not your concern.” He bowed and held out a hand toward the door. “If that’s all you came to say, you can go now.”

“You’re right. I apologize, that was in poor taste.” Choi scrubbed his face with a weathered hand. “But you see, I really do need you. And-” he paused, then seemed to come to a decision. “Your friend, Do Kyungsoo, needs your help.”

Jongdae’s breath caught in his throat. That was the last name he’d expected to hear from the director’s mouth. All the hurt and the rage he’d been bottling up started to simmer.

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Jongdae choked out, his fingernails biting into his palms. “Please leave.”

“He’s in over his head,” the director continued, relentless. “He thinks he’s doing something righteous, but he has no idea how much danger he’s in.”

“He made his choice,” Jongdae said stubbornly.

“He’s making a mistake!” Choi was emphatic, practically shouting. “Your brother died because he tried to protect a monster. That was my fault.” He thumped his chest, guilt twisting his face. “He was in too deep, and I didn’t see the signs. But it’s not too late for Kyungsoo. Work with me, and we can save him from himself.” 

Jongdae fled his apartment, running full tilt up ten flights of stairs before bursting out onto the roof of his apartment building. Up here, all the rage and betrayal, disappointment and grief that had building ripped out his lungs, and he screamed it out into the night sky until he went hoarse. Afterward, he sprawled onto the cool concrete, exhausted, heart pounding in his ears, head aching. But he felt alive again. His mother’s last words to him echoed in his head. _“Watch over the little ones for me, Jongdae. They don’t know it, but sometimes the young ones need to be protected from themselves. That’s what a hyung is for.”_

—-

When he returned to the apartment, the director held out a mug of tea. Jongdae accepted it, and sank onto the couch beside him, holding the warm cup in his hands. “What has Kyungsoo gotten himself into?”

Director Choi crossed his legs, looking up at the ceiling. “Have you ever heard of toxoplasma gondii?” Jongdae shook his head. “It’s a fascinating creature. Toxoplasma is a parasite that can only breed in the guts of cats. So it’s born with singular purpose, to get inside the gut of a cat. So they infect rats.”

“Rats run away from cats.” Jongdae noted skeptically, taking a sip of his tea. “It doesn’t seem like a great plan.”

“That’s the interesting part,” Choi began illustrating his story with his hands. “The parasites hotwire the rat, fiddling with its brain chemistry so it won’t fear the smell of a cat. Instead, it actually begins enjoying the smell, seeking it out. From then, it’s just a matter of time until, chomp!” Choi clicked his teeth together, “The rat gets eaten, and the toxoplasma ends up right it wants to be. Utopia.”

Jongdae shivered, rubbing his arms to get rid of the goosebumps. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s nature at its finest,” Choi corrected. “The toxoplasma is just doing what it’s evolved to do-survive.”

“Over twenty years ago, your father and I discovered a parasite that can hijack human brains, just like toxoplasma hijacks rats. It lives and breeds in the cerebrospinal fluid, but only in hosts with a particular rare genetic marker. So, once it finds a suitable host, the organism ensures its own survival by keeping its host alive for as long as possible. We called it vivus.”

Jongdae tapped his chin. “The last time I checked, staying alive was a good thing.”

Director Choi rested his elbows on his knees, his eyes going dark and pensive.

“The first person we encountered with this parasite —our vivus patient zero—- was an geologist. He and his team were studying a new volcanic island near Fiji when their boat was damaged, and they were stranded for two weeks. The geologist was the only survivor.”

“What happened to the others?”

“According to him, he killed his three teammates within the first two days to conserve water. It didn’t matter to him that there were enough supplies on board to last for a month. The vivus drove him to eliminate any competition for resources to maximize his chances of survival.”

“People do extreme things when they think they might die,” Jongdae said. “That’s not new behavior.”

“The story doesn’t end there.” Choi told him. “The geologist was diabetic, and he had to be hospitalized after his return to Korea. We all thought he would recover after some rest.” Choi bowed his head, knobby knuckles tightening. “When his wife brought him food in the hospital, he cut her open, pulled out her seven-month old fetus, and fed it his blood while she screamed for help.” The old man chuckled dryly. “He died of kidney failure within the day. She died from blood loss. Guess what happened to the baby.”

Jongdae’s tea grew cold, forgotten as the details of the story sank in.

“The baby lived,” he guessed finally. “Because it was the parasite’s new host?”

“Exactly,” Choi confirmed. “At first, we knew nothing about vivus; we discovered the parasite during the geologist’s autopsy. We found it in the baby’s blood as well, but it was months before we connected it to the geologist’s behavior. Even after all these years, we still don’t fully understand how it affects the host’s biochemistry. ”

Jongdae stood suddenly, an idea occurring to him. Choi watched him pace the apartment with a calculating expression. 

“You’ve thought of something.”

“This is why you needed a lawyer,” Jongdae nodded to himself as everything he’d learned began falling into place. “If these people commit crimes because they’re being driven insane by parasite, they shouldn’t be held accountable. But you can’t cure them, so you can’t just let them go either.” He turned to Choi. “This is why Yoondae was always at the prison? One of the inmates was infected? Is this what you meant when you said he tried to protect a monster? ”

“Your brother probably thought he was building a relationship with a new friend,” Choi said grimly, “but a vivus-positive patient doesn’t make friends, he acquire tools for survival.” His eyes narrowed speculatively. “The prison must have become dangerous somehow, so he used his tools to escape and discarded them accordingly.”

Jongdae laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “It’s that bastard arsonist, isn’t it? The fire was an escape attempt, and this gas leak story was just a lie to placate the public.” 

Director Choi retrieved his cane and creaked to his feet. “We were attempting to de-escalate the situation and quarantine the patient, but I admit, we failed to anticipate your friend’s interference. We underestimated Yeol, and now he’s been unleashed on the world again, and Kyungsoo is helping him.”


	7. Obligations We Inherit II

                                          

Jongdae shriveled into his coat, pulling his furry hood further down over his ears, hunching his shoulders as he stuffed his hands tightly into his pockets to keep out the worst of the unseasonable cold. The cheerful ticker sign for the airport lot across the street proclaimed “Welcome to Canada!” in four different languages, then scrolled “Current Temp: -6C.” Jongdae’s face was numb with welcome by the time an SUV pulled up to the curb in front of him. The front window rolled down to reveal Director Choi.

“Get in,” he called, and Jongdae gladly complied. The car sped away as soon as he climbed inside, rocking him back against the seat as the woman at the wheel maneuvered deftly through the sluggish airport traffic. “How was your flight?” the director asked. “Did you sleep?”

“Not really,” Jongdae said as he shrugged out of his heavy coat, now stifling in the car’s heat. He’d spent the entire flight poring over Choi’s database of reports of _vivus_ infections from around the world. He’d tried to analyze them like he would any other case, and they were all dishearteningly similar. An office worker inexplicably started biting his coworkers before dropping dead of a heart attack. A mother pulled herself from a sinking car, then watched the rest of her family drown without lifting a finger. Robbed of basic human decency, average people turned on the ones closest to them, and the betrayed never knew that their loved ones were slaves to a single-celled tyrant. Jongdae wished he could feel pity for the infected, but he had already lost too much. He couldn’t forgive and he wouldn’t forget, but he could try to save Kyungsoo from the same fate.

“We should be helping the police with the manhunt in Korea.” he said, leaning into the front seat. “Every day those two together, Kyungsoo is in more danger.”

“I’ve already got four of my best teams chasing down the leads you gave us.” Choi told him. “They’ll find them long before the police ever come close.” Jongdae prickled at the slight on his former colleagues, but didn’t argue as Choi held up his phone. “I get updates every six hours. When they find your friend, you’ll be the first to know. Until then, quarantining the patients we can actually find takes priority.” 

Jongdae turned to the window as the civilization of the city gave way to mountainous wilderness. “There’s a case all the way out here?”

“Our Guardian network reported an incident last night,” the driver spoke up. “A mountain lift carrying 20 members of a wedding party crashed on its way up to one of the area resorts.”

“This is Sarai, the analyst and medic for Team A.” Choi introduced the woman, and Jongdae bobbed his head in acknowledgment.

“Mountain Rescue was mobilized,” Sarai continued, returning his nod. “But they had to recall their teams after nightfall, and one of the rescuers didn’t report back.”

“Do you think he was attacked?” Jongdae thought about the _vivus_ case studies he’d read. Several had involved emergency workers that were infected while attempting to save someone. “Maybe a person injured in the crash was trying to find a new host for the parasite?”

Sarai and Choi exchanged glances. “It would fit the pattern,” she said slowly.

Jongdae caught a note of hesitation in her voice. “What pattern?”

“You’ve probably already realized it,” Choi explained. “We find all of our cases the same way. The _vivus_ host encounters danger and acts to protect itself. Survive or infect. Behavior that fits that pattern is what the Guardian network looks for, but we didn’t come here because of the lift. The person we’re here to quarantine is the missing rescuer.”

The wheels of the SUV crunched over gravel as Sarai turned off of the main highway onto a narrow trail. The trail led to the base of a mountain, dead-ending at a warehouse with a giant mural of a stylized snowboarder across its front. The warehouse backed up to a snow-packed slope, the cables of a small ski lift stringing up into the distance. From the outside, the place seemed deserted except for three rugged trucks parked near the entrance emblazoned with the Parks Canada logo. Sarai parked alongside them, and Choi pressed a small earpiece into Jongdae’s hand as they climbed out of the car.

The moment they entered the warehouse’s battered double doors, a wave of noise and activity washed over them.

“Excuse me,” Choi snagged a frazzled-looking man hurrying by and flashed an ID in front of his face. “Where is the team from the CDC?”

The man brushed aside the ID and waved his arm toward the small crowd gathered in the center of the room. “Everybody is waiting for an update from the search teams,” he told them, already walking away. 

“There’s James,” Sarai said, pointing to a man in all black standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. “James!” The man looked around as she called out his name, waving her arms to catch his attention. He spotted them and gestured towards a relatively empty corner of the room, and Choi led their way through the bustle. As they reached the meeting spot, James re-emerged from the crowd, trailed closely by a willowy kid in ripped jeans and guyliner. As he sauntered past Jongdae, the kid looked him up and down with a tiny sneer. Jongdae’s fingers twitched with the urge to wipe that smirk off his face, but Director Choi’s voice distracted him.

“What’s the situation?” the director asked as they huddled together to hear above the background noise.

James pointed with his chin towards the knot of activity. The crowd of red-clad rescue workers were clustered around a set of laptops, closely attended by two scruffy men with dark shadows under their eyes and on their chins. As Jongdae watched, a small group of exhausted men and women trooped in from the warehouse’s mountain-facing entrance, their clothes caked with ice and faces red with the beginnings of frostbite.

“They’re still looking for the ski lift,” James explained. “The windstorm that brought it down also made most of the trails impassable, and visibility is low because of all the flying snow. It just starting clearing up an hour ago.”

Choi harrumphed his understanding. “Spread out,” he ordered, making a splitting motion with his fingers. “We need to know what happened to the missing rescuer. Report everything you hear via comm.” Sarai and James drifted away into the bustle, but the director snagged the kid by the arm before he could do the same. “Not you, Baekhyun. Stay next to me.” Baekhyun rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall with a sigh, hands in his pockets in a classic teenage sulk. 

With a little thrill of satisfaction, Jongdae pulled out the small rubber nodule the director had given him and wedged it into his ear. The sound of Baekhyun humming filtered in, overlaying the sounds around him like a surreal soundtrack. He was humming something upbeat, energetic, and extremely distracting, and, given that no-one was telling him to shut it, this auditory entertainment was a regular and unavoidable occurrence. 

“He takes requests,” Choi said, straightfaced.

Jongdae shot Baekhyun an annoyed glance. “Can we mute him?” 

In response, the humming paused, then changed to a rendition of The Magician’s Apprentice. Jongdae ground his teeth in defeat as the rest of the team chuckled over the comms and headed for the group by the computers. He approached one of the new arrivals, a woman with hair still dripping from snowmelt.

“I’m Jongdae Kim, from the CDC,” he told her, using the director’s earlier cover.

The woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Why is the Center for Disease Control here?”

Jongdae smiled stiffly. “We’re conducting an investigation,” he said, and breathed an inward sigh of relief when she didn’t question his vague answer. “Why is the search taking so long?”

The woman’s face drew tight. “We think they were halfway up the mountain when the lift derailed, but the high winds are making it impossible for us to look for them with our choppers. We’ve been sending out ground teams to try and reach the lift’s location, but between the freak freeze last night and the wind, we’re not making any progress.” She bit her lip and looked down. “Even falling from that height, there might have been survivors if we’d been able to get to them. But it’s been nearly twenty-four hours, now,” she sighed. “We’re probably just looking for bodies now.”

“I heard that someone from yesterday’s rescue team is missing, too?” Jongdae prompted.

The woman huffed, tossing her hair in apparent exasperation, but her fingers squeezed together, betraying her anxiety. “Minseok. His GPS tracker is down, and we’ve been trying to raise him on radio but he stopped responding during the night.” She turned away, but not before Jongdae caught the glistening in her eyes. “He shouldn’t have wandered off,” she whispered softly.

“I got a signal!” A man’s voice rose excitedly over the general clamor, and the crowd surged even closer to the computers. Caught in the press, Jongdae stood on his tiptoes, trying to see the screens over the heads of the people in front of him.

“They picked up a GPS signal, and it’s not moving.” James’ voice filtered through Jongdae’s earpiece as he narrated the events, his height giving him a nearly unobstructed view. “ They’re redirecting the closest team to intercept it.”

“Is it Minseok’s signal or the lift car?” Jongdae asked.

“See for yourself,” James said, unhelpfully. “They’re showing the feeds from the helmet cams.”

“I can’t,” Jongdae started to retort, when someone started up a projector on the far side of the room, displaying the rescue team’s camera feeds against the wall for all to see. He began inching closer to that wall so he could follow the action, leaving James behind to monitor the GPS tracking system. Sarai also appeared out of the crowd on a different side of the room.

“I found something weird,” she began.

“Go ahead,” Director Choi said.

“Overnight, one of weather stations recorded a sudden cold spot. The temperature dropped forty degrees on the mountain, but none of the surrounding stations recorded similar drops,” Sarai reported. “I’ve been looking up the weather maps, and the cold spot stayed in the same place all night. It didn’t blow in with the storm, and it’s not dissipating either.”

“How is that weird?” James sounded decidedly underwhelmed by Sarai’s findings, but Jongdae thought of the ‘freak freeze’ the female rescuer had mentioned.

“Cold air doesn’t just appear,” Sarai retorted. “And the center of the spot is less than a mile from where that GPS signal is transmitting. I’d say that’s mighty weird.”

Before Jongdae could add what he’d heard, an exclamation of shock rose up through the crowd. He whirled back to the helmet camera feed, staring open-mouthed with the rest of the observers at the grainy images. The rescue team leader’s camera showed his labored progress, step by step, through a nightmare landscape. His team’s cries of dismay were static-laden but unmistakable as the camera panned past the scattered, twisted bodies of the people they’d set out to save. Dark blood splattered liberally and stark against the snowy landscape, and the bodies were rimed in a clear coat of ice. The wreckage of the lift car they’d been ejected from loomed several feet away at the end of a trail of mangled corpses. The team leader’s breath puffed in the air as he struggled up the slope towards it.

“God, it’s cold,” he muttered as the camera followed his glance downward to his watch, showing the temperature dropping with each step he took. The other camera feeds showed his team of volunteers straggled across the mountainside behind him, two still doggedly climbing in his footsteps while the other three stopped by the bodies. The team leader pushed on, his grunts of exertion growing increasingly strained as he drew closer to the ruined lift car. Glass from its smashed windows glittered dangerously underfoot while his breath turned to ice on the camera lens. When he finally reached the car, he dropped to his knees with a gasp of relief, echoed by the sympathetic observers. Picking himself up after a brief break, he walked around the car lying sideways in the snow, half buried, ducking under the thick cables still attached to its torn top. He paused beneath the cable stalk, looking at the snow that had piled under it during the car’s slide down the mountain. Hunkering down on his hands and knees, he brushed awkwardly at the ice-hardened snow with his gloves, startling backward when a whole shelf of it collapsed inward. His camera abruptly fogged up in the gush of warm air from the tiny cavern formed by the car’s upended structure, but everyone caught a glimpse of eyes blinking rapidly in its depths, and a pale hand held up against the bright sunlight.

“Holy smokes,” a portly volunteer spoke into the stunned silence in the warehouse. “That boy’s got more lives than a cat.”

Jongdae found himself jostled backwards as more of the observers pressed closely to the projector, trying to make out the details of the camera’s foggy picture. He fought the crush with his elbows and managed to maintain his place near the front. The camera view gradually cleared, showing the team leader still on his knees, now joined by the two other rescuers who had toiled up the slope with him. Together they were scraping away the snow and ice from the opening in Minseok’s makeshift shelter, widening it so he could squeeze through. It didn’t take them very long; Minseok climbed out of the hole when it seemed barely large enough for a child to fit through. As soon as his feet cleared the threshold, he twisted back around and dived headfirst back into the cave. The camera lurched crazily as the team leader and one of his companions knocked heads in their haste to throw themselves on top of Minseok’s legs before he fell. They pulled backwards, and Minseok reemerged from the cave clutching a large, bright red bundle tight to his chest.

Jongdae held his breath along with everyone else, and staggered sideways as the crowd erupted in wild, jumping, triumphant cheers when the bundle Minseok was holding squirmed and turned its little face to the world. This time, Jongdae didn’t resist the buffeting motion, and he washed up against the wall like flotsam, reeling.

“That’s the center of the cold spot,” a voice said into his ear. It took Jongdae a moment to realize that Sarai was continuing her argument from earlier. “Cold air can’t come from nowhere, and children don’t survive minus-40 nights .”

“Weird.” James’ one-syllable response was all that was needed.

The crowd chattered excitedly as they watched the team on the mountain exclaim over the rescued toddler. Their journey back down the mountain was full of smiles, even as they collected their teammates from their work in the icy graveyard. At some point, Jongdae realized that Minseok wasn’t wearing his coat— it was wrapped around the child, leaving him with only a thin fleece pullover. He should have been freezing on that long hike, blue and crippled with hypothermia. Instead, Minseok was practically running down the mountain, all of his attention fixed on the bundle he carried, his properly-clad teammates hard pressed to keep up.

_Survive or infect._ Director Choi’s words ran circles in Jongdae’s head as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. 

As the rescue team drew within sight of their snowmobiles, the camera feed went dead, its work complete. The observing crowd dispersed, energetically preparing for the incoming team and survivor. A small crew, noticeably less excited, began gathering supplies and litters to return to the mountain and recover the bodies of the fallen.

“Baekhyun!” Director Choi’s voice boomed through the comm after the long silence, and Jongdae winced, grabbing his ear. “Does anyone see him?” 

“Did he disappear again?” Sarai’s voice was high-pitched with worry. Jongdae forgot about the rescue and scrambled to remember when he’d last heard Baekhyun humming. He came up empty, and the other team members echoed his uncertainty. No-one had noticed when Baekyun literally dropped off their radar. 

“ _Mierda!_ ” James swore. “He’s outside.”

Jongdae turned towards the exit as Sarai blasted past him and through the door. Caught up in her panic, he chased after her, James far in the lead, all of them running flat out towards Baekhyun’s tiny silhouette in the distance, toiling slowly up the foot of the mountain.

When they caught up with him, he was nearly to the top of the first rise, his hands and knees iced and bloody from clawing his way up the slippery slope. James planted himself in front of Baek, blocking his path with one hand on his chest. Sarai drew out a thin cable from her pocket and gingerly clipped the end to one of the silver rings hanging from Baekhyun’s belt. Jongdae watched in bewildered fascination as the two, working in tandem, slowly guided Baek back down the slope, James herding from above, Sarai towing him gently from below. As they neared the bottom where Director Choi waited, the first snowmobiles of the rescue team slid into view from the other side of the mountain. Baek turned, taking a step towards them, his eyes strangely unfocused. Jongdae reached out to stop him, only for Baekhyun to go suddenly limp, dragging them both off-balance and tumbling them the rest of the way down the slope. 

Jongdae groaned as Sarai slid to a stop beside them, tucking something into her pocket. She crouched over Baekhyun, lifting his eyelids and checking his pulse. “Seizure,” she said in response to Jongdae’s wide-eyed, unspoken question. She straightened as James arrived in a puff of ice. “He’ll be fine.”

_That didn’t look like any seizure I’ve ever seen,_ Jongdae thought to himself, but he said nothing. Instead, he helped Sarai carefully drape Baekhyun over James’ back, and tried not to limp as they carried Baekhyun back to their car. Director Choi joined them as they arranged the unconscious boy in the backseat, and tapped James on the arm.

“Stay here and rendezvous with Team B when they arrive tonight. Quarantine the patient and have him transported to the Utah facility. We’ll meet you there.” 

James stared at the director.“Tonight?” he repeated, and something in Director’s Choi’s expression made his snap to attention. “Tonight,” he said firmly. “ What about the child? He could be infected by now.”

Sarai looked up from tucking a blanket around Baekhyun’s shoulders. “Everything about this accident is going to make the news. We can cover up Minseok disappearing, but not the little one, too.”

Choi tapped a finger on his cane thoughtfully. “Have the Team B medic take a blood sample from the child, and assign a Guardian to watch over him until we get the results.”

“Understood.” James saluted before jogging back toward the warehouse. 

For the return trip, the director took the wheel as Jongdae climbed into the passenger seat. Jongdae turned to the back, where Baekhyun showed no sign of reviving, his head in Sarai’s lap. The kid looked awfully pale.

“He’ll be fine,” Choi said coolly, noticing his concern. “He’ll wake up in an hour.” The SUV jostled back and forth as they retraced their path back to the main highway. 

Jongdae pushed away the worry about Baekhyun with a little shake of his head, refocusing on the mountaintop rescue. Before learning about _vivus_ , he would have written the whole thing off as exceptional good fortune. Now, he couldn’t shake the little details, like the puff of warm air from the cave, the healthy flush of the child’s cheeks, the stationary cold spot. It didn’t make sense. “Minseok wasn’t wearing a coat,” he remembered, that detail standing out above everything else. “It was forty below at night, but he didn’t even seem cold.” 

“He used that child like personal heater,” Choi said, his mouth twisting in distaste. “Do you see how ruthless _vivus_ makes a person?” 

_Survive or infect._ Jongdae tried to match what he’d seen that day with all he’d learned from the _vivus_ cases he’d studied, but there was a piece that didn’t fit. Maybe Minseok didn’t mean to save the little boy, maybe he had been keeping him for his body heat just like the Director said. But a _vivus_ host would never have knowingly put themselves in danger, yet that’s exactly what Minseok had done. He had risked his own life first by volunteering for a risky rescue, by purposefully leaving his team after nightfall, and once more by taking off his coat. Director Choi seemed convinced that this was just another case like all the others, but Jongdae wasn’t so sure. Minseok didn’t fit the pattern.


	8. The Family You Choose VI

Kyungsoo let himself into the motel room, dripping from the pouring rain, and immediately let out a sigh of regret. He hadn’t even been gone that long, yet everything was so much worse than he remembered. Animal prints assaulted his eyes from every surface— carpet, wallpaper, bedspread, even the towel he used to mop his face dry. Rhinestones sparkled from the edge of the hot tub as he wrung the water from his clothes before tossing them over the curtain rod to dry. The shelf full of scented and textured ‘adult necessities’ glistened in their shiny packaging, and Kyungsoo had to cover his eyes with one hand as he gingerly brushed them into the wastebin. Despite the garish decor and embarrassing amenities, the love motel was a perfect hiding place for Korea’s Most Wanted. It was cheap and, most importantly, anonymous, the room keys ordered from a faceless, cash-only kiosk at the entrance. In the city’s current state, a safe place to sleep was luxury enough, everything else would just have to be endured. He wrapped the towel around his middle before padding barefoot from the bathroom.

Yeol whistled appreciatively from where he sprawled on the tiger-striped bed. “Nice abs,” he quipped as Kyungsoo walked by.

“Shut up.” Kyungsoo said, rummaging through the plastic bags he’d brought for fresh clothes. He stepped into a pair of shorts and dropped the towel, then flung a long, flowy skirt onto Yeol’s face.

“That’s for you,” he told him, searching for the skirt’s matching top. “We can’t do anything about your casts, but at least they’ll be less noticeable in a dress.” He pulled out a pair of dark-haired wigs, and held them up side by side. “These can help disguise our faces.”

Yeol whipped his head back and forth clear the cotton from his eyes. “I call the one on the right,” he said, before spluttering a bit of lint out of his mouth. “I look great in a bob.”

Kyungsoo tossed the short wig onto the bed and fitted the longer one over his own head, adjusting it in the bedside mirror. He combed out the bangs and flipped the locks over his shoulder. “How do I look? Convincing?” He batted his eyelashes in his best imitation of one of Yeol’s doe-eyed fan girls.

Yeol hiccuped, snorted, then burst out in hysterical laughter. “You look like a girl,” he chortled, “who looks like a dude!”

Kyungsoo made a face at him and turned back to the mirror, ignoring the mocking as he checked the look from different angles. He thought he looked okay. It wouldn’t fool anyone who knew him, but the cops on high alert were far less likely to look closely at a ‘girl’ than at a guy wearing a hat and mask. He combed out his bangs again. _I would date a girl who looked like me._

Yeol managed to pull himself together after a few minutes, blinking away tears of hilarity. “Why the sudden gender swap?” he asked, sobering. “Are the police really cracking down?”

“It’s not just the police,” Kyungsoo said, surprised. “Haven’t you been watching the news?”

Yeol gave him a black look. “Maybe I would have if you hadn’t left the remote,” he pointed at the television across the room, “ _aaall_ the way over there.”

Kyungsoo retrieved the tv remote guiltily, and flipped to the first news channel he could find. Images of police swarming through apartment buildings and grim-faced soldiers marching through parks played across the screen as he plopped on the bed. “The army reserve is locking down parts of the city while the police and anyone they can recruit go door to door looking for us. It’s basically martial law.”

“How long until they reach this neighborhood?”

“They’re already here,” Kyungsoo admitted. “On my way back from the market, uniformed soldiers were setting up checkpoints at every corner. I think they found the last car we stole.”

“That you stole,” Yeol corrected, poking him in the side. “I don’t think grand theft auto was part of your police training.”

Kyungsoo shrugged, blushing a little. “A relic of my misspent youth. The important thing is that they know we’re somewhere in this part of the city. It’s just a matter of time until they find us. We need a plan.”

Yeol sniffed the air. “Plan later. I smell ddukbokki,” he said, licking his lips.

“That’s because I had some while I was out. It’s the ghost of ddukbokki past.” Kyungsoo pulled off his wig and arranged it neatly back in the bag. “There’s none for you.”

Yeol’s lip wobbled, and his eyes moistened. “None?”

Kyungsoo could only sustain the cruelty for a few seconds before the pout overpowered him. “This is why I never got a dog,” he grumbled as he pulled out a foil-wrapped package still hot to the touch. He unwrapped it as Yeol struggled to sit upright, stabbing a few pieces with toothpicks as he waited. He popped one into Yeol’s mouth when he succeeded in sitting up, and the latter wriggled around cheerfully as he chewed.

“Does food make you that happy?” Kyungsoo asked, readying another piece. “Cops could break down our door any minute, but you’re dancing..”

Yeol nodded and opened his mouth wide for another piece. Kyungsoo pulled it back at the last moment, struck by a spark of inspiration. Yeol’s teeth clicked shut on empty air, and he wilted instantly with disappointment.

“As long as we’re just sitting here, let’s play a game,” Kyungsoo suggested, which earned him a dark scowl from Yeol. “You get a rice cake for every question you answer. No lying.” Yeol’s expression was sulky, but his eyes were fixed on the ddukbokki, so Kyungsoo knew he had him hooked.

“The first question is easy. What’s your name?”

“Chanyeol.” Yeol stretched his tongue to touch the rice cake, the pout returning when Kyungsoo moved it out of his reach. “You promised.”

“I called you Yeol as a joke when we couldn’t identify your fingerprints,” Kyungsoo reminded him. “I want your real name. No lying.”

Yeol sighed. “That is my real name. Chan. Yeol.” He spelled out his name with his finger.

Kyungsoo scoffed sarcastically. “An arsonist named ‘Fiery?’” He ate the rice cake himself, and stabbed a new one. “Let’s try a different easy question. Where are you from?”

“My parents are Korean, but I was born in Fiji.”

“A volcanic island? Really?” Kyungsoo ate that rice cake too, fanning himself with a napkin. All the spiciness was making the room feel like a furnace. “At least make your lies believable.”

Yeol lips thinned in irritation. “Fine. I’m from Seoul.”

Kyungsoo nodded in approval. “How did you hide your identity?”

Yeol shook his head stubbornly. “One question, one rice cake.” Kyungsoo shrugged and fed him another piece. He waited until Yeol was finished eating it, then repeated his question.

Yeol smiled broadly. “My fingerprints aren’t in your database because I was born in Fiji.”

Kyungsoo glanced at Yeol’s ears, but there was no trace of a dishonest blush. “Wait, really?” His hand sagged back to the ddukbokki tin in disbelief. “You were actually born in a volcano? Your parents name you ‘Bright Fiery Heat’?!”

Chanyeol stared pointedly at the food Kyungsoo was failing to feed him, and Kyungsoo hurriedly stuffed a couple of pieces into his mouth so they could keep going. This was already more truth than he’d able to squeeze out of him in two years of prison interviews.

“The irony of my name and birthplace isn’t lost on me,” Chanyeol continued. “But it’s not like I was _destined_ to be a pyro.” The tips of his ears went pink.

Kyungsoo spotted the telltale bloom, and tried to probe a little. “When did you set your first fire?”

Chanyeol’s gaze flickered. “Pass.”

Kyungsoo was dying to pry further into Chanyeol’s history, but he knew when to back off. Instead, he switched topics to something more recent, and more pressing. “Who are we running from?” He thought back to the hospital room. “The cops are after us for obvious reasons, but before you said something about a militia. What is that?”

“I don’t know exactly who they are,” Chanyeol confessed. “The militia is just a term I’ve picked up over the years. It’s probably not their official name, if they even have one.”

“Years?” Kyungsoo blinked sweat from his eyes, zeroing in on the word. “Years?”

“I’ve crossed entire continents trying to get away from them,” Chanyeol’s fists tightened at the memories. “Everywhere I go, they find me. Everyone I meet, they turn against me.” He bared his teeth in a humorless smile. “Every time I tried to explain it someone, they’d say it was all in my head. I thought I was going crazy, but…” He held up his double casts.

“Why?” The question had been bothering Kyungsoo from the very beginning. The events of the past week seemed like such overkill for one person-- assassins in the night, the ruined prison, soldiers in the streets. “Why do they want to get rid of you that badly?”

Chanyeol studied him for a moment, chewing his lip, before he reached out to take the empty toothpick from Kyungsoo’s hand. “Watch,” he said, then hastily added, “but don’t freak out.”

Kyungsoo stared at the toothpick as the seconds ticked by, and a tiny tendril of smoke rose from the sliver of wood. Rational Kyungsoo punched out as the toothpick burst into blue-white flame, burning more rapidly than any match, the heat singing his eyebrows. Within moments, there was nothing left but a smudge of ash against Chanyeol’s fingers. Foolish Kyungsoo, the kid who once lit an entire package of sparklers at once just to see what would happen, placed another toothpick in Chanyeol’s hand. As he met the arsonist’s anxious gaze, he couldn’t stop the corners of his lips from quirking upwards.

“Do that again.”

  
  
  


awesome photo credit to sooblime - <http://daenso.tumblr.com/>


	9. Obligations We Inherit III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mad scientist on the loose. you've been warned.

                                          

The Utah facility turned out to be an underground complex hidden deep in the mountains. An unassuming cave just off the highway abruptly transformed into a sleek tunnel just wide enough for their car. It wound on for miles before terminating in a brightly lit parking garage, where Jongdae now stood, alone. Director Choi had abandoned their small group at the airport, whisked away by chauffeured car as soon as they’d arrived in the country. Sarai had her hands full trying to manage a very groggy Baekhyun, but she’d given Jongdae a breathless mandate to ‘take a look around’ before hauling her droopy charge away. 

Jongdae examined the employee badge Sarai had pressed into his hand before she left. They’d somehow gotten his picture from his police ID, and his blood type, height, weight, and thumbprints were displayed on the badge’s back. He swapped out the badge with the ID in his wallet, tucking the old one into his backpack before setting off in search of the entrance. He walked the length of the garage before finding a faint rectangular outline in the paint, a card reader lock embedded in the wall beside it. Jongdae held his badge against the lock, and, after a moment, a handprint glowed above it. He placed his hand against it and was rewarded by a soft hiss as the door slid into the wall, revealing a corridor that curved out of sight.

The first door Jongdae encountered was reinforced steel, the word INTAKE etched into its surface. A digital display near its card lock showed a calendar for the week, and he skimmed through it, recognizing all of the names as the most recently quarantined vivus patients. There was even a block of time scheduled for the next morning labeled ‘Kim, Minseok.’ He tapped his badge against the lock, and the door slid open to reveal a room crammed with medical equipment, all surrounding a single bed. He opened every drawer, cabinet, and closet in the room, but, other than a small express elevator, the room held nothing of interest. He returned to the main corridor, following it around the bend.

The first level looked just like a upscale office building, workspaces with glass doors lining one wall, coffee nooks with chic furniture dotting the other. A few of the office occupants looked up as he passed by, but most paid him no attention. He barely had time to wonder why they seemed so unconcerned about a stranger in their midst when he nearly bounced off of a pair of patrolling guards. Their combat gear and assault rifles clashed with the elegant recessed lighting and expensive floral arrangements, their glowering silence at odds with the soft Muzak tinkling in the background. They took his badge, suspiciously inspecting the hologram and comparing his name and face with their database. As a fellow peacekeeper, Jongdae appreciated their attention to detail, but they seemed a bit excessively equipped for simple security. The next pair he encountered were considerably friendlier, dressed comfortably in polos and tactical pants, tasers on their hips. They didn’t even pause their conversation, but simply gave him a thumbs up as he walked by, badge on display. He was stopped and searched by three more pairs of the overkill brigade before he found an elevator. 

Level Two was boring and quiet, its tastefully decorated halls full of doors he couldn’t unlock, labeled with names he didn’t know, and mercifully free of guards. He wandered the floor for a while before coming across a neighboring set of doors for Sarai and Baekhyun. Realizing what this level was for, he jogged around excitedly until he found his own door, the nameplate shiny and new. Swiping his way inside, he found a moderately sized dorm with simple, utilitarian furnishings. Military barracks were more luxurious, but after everything that had happened in this endless day, even a pile of straw would’ve looked comfortable. He stowed his backpack gratefully and gave the bed a pat before he left, promising to return soon.

Jongdae stepped out of the elevator on Level Three to find himself in haunted hospital. The rooms were set up for patients, the bedding neatly turned down, equipment waiting, but nary a person in sight. He passed by room after unoccupied room, their doors ajar, the sounds of his footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Even the nurses’ stations were unmanned and layered with dust, as if these rooms hadn’t seen use in months, perhaps even years. He finally discovered signs of life as he reached the final corridor. An expansive, glass-enclosed lab dominated the space, populated by bunny-suited researchers bent over their work. Beyond the lab, a doctor leaned over the nurses’ station, scribbling notes as she gave orders to the attentive nurses. The patient rooms in this wing were all sealed, and he peered through the window of the closest one to check if it was occupied. A woman lay there, staring listlessly at the ceiling, her body bound tightly to the bed. Jongdae tapped his badge to the door lock, and to his surprise, it actually opened.

“You should wear a spit guard if you’re going in there.” The doctor strolled up to him, one thumb hooked into her pocket, a plastic face shield swinging from her other hand. “The sicker they get, the more desperate they are to spread the infection.” Jongdae stepped away from the door hastily, a little unnerved. He’d assumed it was safe because the patient was strapped down. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that she could just hawk a loogie at his face.

“Most quarantine agents don’t go past L2.” The doctor seemed amused at his discomfiture. “You’re a real pioneer.”

Jongdae reddened a little. “I’m new,” he said defensively.

“It shows,” she responded with a smirk. She swept out her arm to gesture to the other patient rooms and the lab. “Welcome to the one and only Vivus Research Center, where the quarantined graciously assist us in our search for a treatment. Explore all you like.”

Assist seemed like a flowery word for people who were essentially kidnapped from their lives, but Jongdae didn’t quibble the point as she walked away. Looking back at the woman in the bed, he noticed now the signs of worsening illness: hair plastered damply to her head, pale skin, the rapid but shallow rise and fall of her chest. Her chart hung from a peg beside the door, and her name jumped out at him. _Anna Torv_ , the mother who saved herself, but lost her family to a sinking car. That accident had been less than a week ago, so her name had been on the intake schedule as well. He tried to read the rest of her chart, but it was just meaningless jargon to him. He moved on to the next few rooms, finding more names he recognized, all of them patients that had been quarantined within the past week. _Where are all the others?_

A sudden alarm whined through the corridor, and a red light began flashing above the door of the stricken mother he had left behind. He braced himself for a flood of doctors rushing to save her, but nothing happened. There was no flurry of activity, no frantic effort. One of the doctors stepped out of another room, strolled to the emergency, and swiped his way inside. The alarm quieted a moment later and the wing’s normal sounds of activity resumed. Apparently, death was an frequent and uncontested visitor.

Before Jongdae had time to consider the implications, a familiar voice caught his attention. He hid without thinking, letting himself into the last room in the hall. The wasted patient hissed menacingly from his bed, and Jongdae covered his nose, trying to take shallow breaths in case the air was somehow contaminated. Sarai walked past the room a moment later, wearing purple scrubs and moving quickly, her voice raised as she berated someone over the phone. Jongdae poked his head out of the room, watching her call the elevator —the express car to the intake room. He had to duck back inside of the room when she leaned against the opposite wall, her hands splayed out at chest height, apparently tired from the long day. The elevator pinged its arrival, just as a hidden panel recessed silently into the surface under her hands, gliding open and revealing a stairwell. She was through the opening and gone in an instant. No-one in the hall was looking her way; nobody would have noticed her disappear into the secret door. Every investigative instinct Jongdae had told him to follow her, and he lunged across the hall, slipping into the stairwell just as the panel slid shut. He grimaced as he studied the panel from this side, belatedly realizing that he had no exit strategy. There was no card lock, no visible way of opening the door at all, and the stairwell only went down, into the unknown. He sighed, then took off his shoes and began tiptoeing down the concrete stairs. As long as he was trespassing, he might as well find out what they were hiding behind the secret door inside of the secret base. 

Jongdae could hear Sarai descending rapidly a couple of flights below him. He picked up his own pace, trying to catch up to her without making a sound. Adrenaline jolted through him at the familiar hiss of another door unlocking at the bottom of the stairwell. Throwing caution to the wind, he vaulted over the railing of the last two flights and dove forward to jam his shoe into the door frame at the last second. He exhaled shakily at the close call and took a moment to gather himself. It took all of his strength to force open the door wide enough to squeeze through, and as soon as he let it go, it snapped shut with a heavy thud. He assessed his surroundings quickly, finding himself at the end of another hospital-like corridor identical to the one he had just left, deserted and dark but for a few lights at the end where the lab would be. He crept toward the light, footsteps landing soundlessly, checking for potential hiding spots as he moved. All of the patient rooms he passed were locked and windowless; only the unoccupied nurses’ station in the middle of the corridor afforded any chance of cover.

The corridor dead-ended in a blank wall in the lit area, dashing his faint hopes of an elevator or second stairwell. There was also no airy research lab here, just a simple steel door with a pull handle. Sarai had to be inside. Jongdae knelt and pressed his ear to the door, listening. When he couldn’t hear any sounds of activity, he gingerly tugged at the handle, revealing a tiny crack of darkness. When there was no ambush or whoop of an alarm, he eased the door open a little farther to peek inside, then slipped in and shut it silently behind him. As his eyes adjusted, he realized he was in an observation deck. One wall was half tinted glass, and there was another door at the end of the narrow space leading to the larger room beyond. He inched closer to the window, raising his head just enough to see what was happening, poised to duck if anyone was looking his way. The observation deck looked down on a room that was part operating theater, part tinkerer’s garage. Sarai was organizing a tray of tools that belonged in a machine shop, while a similarly attired physician fiddled with the settings on a piece of medical equipment. Director Choi was sitting on a stool on the opposite side of the room, his cane crossed neatly in his lap, foot tapping impatiently. In the middle of the room, insensate on the operating table, thick straps holding down his head, torso, and limbs, laid Minseok.

_What the hell?_ Jongdae ducked down, his back against the wall, mind racing.The intake room schedule had clearly listed Minseok’s arrival for tomorrow morning. Back at the rescue site, Director Choi had even made a point of ordering Team B to quarantine Minseok _tonight_. Jongdae scrubbed his face with his hands, ordering his thoughts. Maybe he misunderstood. Maybe Choi’s orders were for Minseok to _arrive_ at the quarantine facility tonight. Maybe the intake schedule was a misprint. Maybe he was getting worked up over a simple miscommunication. There was no reason they would lie about something as trivial as a patient’s arrival time.

But Jongdae’s gut told him it wasn’t a mistake. He hadn’t been suspicious when both Director Choi and Sarai ditched him; they were busy people, and he didn’t need a babysitter. But now they were prepping factory tools in an operating room nobody could find with a patient that nobody knew was here. Even though he had no idea what they were doing, the whole clandestine setup reeked of felonious intent. 

“Are you almost ready?” Director Choi’s chair creaked as he shifted restlessly. “If there isn’t enough time confirm this before our sponsors arrive, just use Poseidon for the demonstration.”

“Must you use those weird codewords?” Sarai asked as she cut away Minseok’s shirt, exposing his upper body. An IV tube ran from the back of Minseok’s hand to a bag of clear liquid. “Our patients have names.”

“It’s our duty to protect their anonymity,” Choi retorted. “Plus, our sponsors prefer projects with impressive names. Think of it like built-in marketing. If Guardian reports about this one are true, I’m going to call him Yeti.”

The doctor approached the bed and picked up a soldering gun from Sarai’s tray of tools. Jongdae’s eyes widened, his whole body going rigid with dread. _What are they doing?!_

Choi sat up expectantly as the doctor positioned himself beside the bed. “Dr. Han, you’re ready to begin?”

“Indeed.” Han snapped his fingers at Sarai. “The camera, please.”

Sarai pointed a remote at a video camera suspended above the table. “It’s recording now.”

“Vivus Subject..mm…Yeti,” Han began, prompting a chuckle from Director Choi. “The Guardian anecdotes suggest that the subject possesses an unusual tolerance to extreme temperatures. His tolerance of low temperatures was witnessed by Team A prior to quarantine. It remains to be seen if that tolerance extends to heat as well.” Jongdae was frozen in place, aghast, as the doctor calmly pressed the wide wedge-like tip of the soldering gun against Minseok’s shoulder. 

“The subject’s flesh responds normally to extreme heat,” Han said, his tone impassive and clinical as Minseok’s skin blistered and blackened under the gun. “These burns will be quite nasty. Perhaps 600F is too high.” He traced the gun back and forth across Minseok’s chest, thin trails of smoke hissing in its wake. “Nurse, please make a note to take care of these well so they don’t get infected.”

Han raised the gun, fanning away the smoke with a cough. “This has put me in the mood for a cheeseburger.” Jongdae gagged, struggling not to vomit. 

“Let’s move on to the conscious test. Sarai, wake the subject, please.” Sarai clamped the IV, cutting off the flow of the sedating drug. 

Jongdae sagged to the ground in the observation deck, fists shaking. He knew he couldn’t stop this. This facility wasn’t buried underground because it was cool, and the armed guards patrolling the only entrance weren’t there to give warm hugs. One false move and he would disappear without a trace. A sardonic smile played over his lips. He didn’t even have any family to notice when he was gone. 

But he couldn’t run away. Duty nailed him to the ground, and acid burned in his chest at the thought of doing nothing. He was still a cop, no matter how many stacks of paperwork he had stamped to sign his life away. He pulled out his phone, and opened up the camera app. He was powerless right now, but he could be a witness and gather evidence of the director’s crimes. The moment he was above ground and away from this reception black hole, that proof would be sent straight to every authority that would listen. Steeling himself, he held the phone up to the window so the image would be clear and damning.

Jongdae ground his teeth, heart in his throat, as Minseok began to stir, the effects of the IV wearing off. _Go back to sleep Go back to sleep._

Sarai leaned in close and patted Minseok’s cheek gently. “Minseok? Can you hear me?” The straps around his body tightened as Minseok tried to move. “The subject is awake.” Sarai fitted a biteguard into his mouth, and braced herself against his shoulders, holding him down. “You can proceed.”

“Testing Yeti’s conscious response now,” Han droned in that horrible emotionless voice. “Please monitor his vitals.” 

Han pressed the soldering gun against his chest and Minseok bucked against his restraints, his shrieks of pain muffled by the bite guard.

Jongdae’s hands started shaking, but he tried desperately to keep the camera steady as Minseok screamed and thrashed on the table, trying to pull away from the searing metal.

“It’s working!” Director Choi exclaimed suddenly, climbing heavily out of his chair and staggering forward for a better view.

The doctor pulled the gun away, and Minseok collapsed against the table with a low moan, trembling. “The subject is not burning,” Han said, a note of incredulity breaking his clinical detachment. Jongdae plastered himself against the window, trying to see what they saw. Han dropped the soldering gun onto the tray and picked up a handheld blowtorch. The blue flame blazed to life, and Han kept up his soulless commentary as Minseok writhed in agony.

“There appears to be slight redness in the areas where the flame is applied, but…” After an eternity, Han turned off the torch and straightened. “Even that begins to fade as soon as the source of heat is removed. Remarkable.”

“Marketable,” Director Choi amended, fingers flexing excitedly on his cane. “Our sponsors will throw money at us to replicate this ability!” He reached out to touch Minseok’s shoulder, probing the charred, bleeding flesh lightly with one gloved finger. “But why didn’t it work before? He burned in the beginning.” Behind them, Sarai restarted the IV, and Minseok went limp.

Dr. Han settled the blowtorch into the tray of tools by the bedside and crossed his arms, hand drumming against his chin. “It’s hard to say without more exhaustive testing,” he said speculatively. “This ability seems to be a conscious defense mechanism, an acute stress response rather than something intrinsic to his physiology. He has to be awake to control it.”

“Not the same as Phoenix, then,” Sarai chimed in.

“Unfortunately not,” Dr. Han agreed. “But they are fascinatingly similar. If only we had them both to compare…”

_First Poseidon, now Phoenix?_ Jongdae filed the codenames away to investigate later.

Director Choi’s eyebrows beetled as he glowered down at his cane, his former good humor vanished. “Yeti is completely fireproof, just like Phoenix,” he commanded. “That’s what our sponsors want, and that’s what our demo will show.”

“We can’t keep Minseok awake for the whole time!” Sarai protested. “He might not burn, but he’ll be in extreme pain. Drugs will affect his ability, but without medication he could pass out or even have a heart attack. It’s too risky.” 

Dr. Han held up a eager hand. “There’s another test we could try.” When Choi motioned for him to continue, Han pointed to the machine he had been fiddling with earlier. “Electroconvulsive therapy. Originally, I thought it could be used as a treatment method— disrupt the vivus activity in the brain and we could effectively ‘reset’ an infected person.” He sighed gustily. “Alas, Poseidon is not the most cooperative subject, and his response to electrical stimuli has always been a bit extreme. My experiments proved inconclusive.” 

“But?” Director Choi prompted.

“But the ECT treatment agitates the vivus enough to induce the fight-or-flight response. I can use it to activate Yeti’s ability even if he isn’t awake.”

Sarai shook her head vehemently at the idea. “We’re not prepared for that kind of procedure right now.” 

“It’s perfectly safe,” Han said to the director. “It’ll cause a little seizure, but no permanent damage.”

“You can’t be sure of that! We skipped all the normal intake procedures, and we haven’t done any baseline tests!” Sarai gripped the director’s arm, vibrating with apprehension. “The demo is in an hour. You cannot tax Minseok’s system like this and expect good results.”

“Two seconds,” Han wheedled, holding up a pair of paddle-like electrodes. “Just a tiny charge to see how the vivus defends itself. It will barely tickle, and we could learn so much.”

“Two seconds,” Director Choi allowed, shaking off Sarai’s grip. He stabbed a stern finger in Dr. Han’s direction. “Do. Not. Damage. Him.”

Dr. Han swallowed and adjusted a dial backwards on the ECT machine. “Is the camera still recording?” Sarai shot him a baleful look, but nodded in confirmation. 

In the observation room, Jongdae’s head bumped against the glass as he wished he was anywhere but here. His phone felt heavier than a brick as he raised it again, preparing to film yet another atrocity.

Dr. Han, in contrast, was positively giddy as he flipped switches on the machine. “Vivus Subject Yeti, undergoing an exploratory ECT treatment to induce hyperarousal. Settings are the same as the Poseidon tests. The charge will be applied using a bilateral electrode placement.” Han settled the paddles near Minseok’s temples. “Start the charge, please.”

Sarai crossed her arms in stubborn protest, refusing to help.

Director Choi walked around the bed to stand beside the machine. “Do I just push the yellow button?”

“Indeed.” The machine activated with a quiet beep.

Minseok’s hand and feet curled into claws, his whole body rigid. The machine switched off after two seconds, and Sarai cursed under her breath as Minseok started convulsing. The window went cold under Jongdae’s forehead, and he jerked away in astonishment, almost dropping his phone. Recovering it, he filmed himself tracing a finger through the condensation now beading the entire surface.

“You see!” Dr. Han announced triumphantly, his breath puffing into the chilled air. He dropped the electrode paddles and grabbed a digital thermometer from a shelf of tools. “The temperature dropped by almost thirty degrees just from that tiny excitation.” He spun in circles in excitement. “He’s not just immune to cold, he can create it! Imagine the effect he could have if he were outside!”

_Cold spot,_ Jongdae remembered. There was a cold spot over the mountain that never moved and didn’t originate from any storm. Cold air that just appeared.

“ I can’t even begin to speculate what kind of physiological changes were required for him to be able to leech heat from his environment with such efficiency.” A scalpel appeared in Han’s hands, and it flashed between his fingers as he toyed with it. “We should take a proper look inside.”

Sarai slapped him across the face, and the scalpel clattered to the ground as he clutched his cheek. “He is a human being, and he is our patient,” she snapped. “You might have proved your point, but you are done playing mad scientist today.”

Choi rapped his cane on the ground in reproof. “She’s right. We have more than enough to impress our sponsors. There’s no need to rush things.” He turned to Sarai. “Use whatever you need to stabilize Yeti, but have him ready when our guests arrive.”

Sarai’s face scrunched unhappily, but she bowed her head in acquiescence as Choi began climbing the small stair that led to the observation deck. 

Jongdae hastily stuffed his phone into his back pocket and eased swiftly into the corridor, running to the nurse’s station. He hunkered underneath the desk, his blood singing in his ears as the slow tap of Choi’s cane echoed into the hall. Choi neared the nurse’s station, and Jongdae froze, waiting for him to pass by. Another set of footsteps joined the director’s, Sarai’s, light and fast.

“Why would you let him do that?” Sarai’s voice was hushed, but shrill with anger. “You know how important Minseok is!”

“I admit that the ECT was probably not the safest idea,” Director Choi’s voice was unruffled, and just as quiet as Sarai’s. “But fortune favors the bold.”

“Whatever,” she said. “When are you going to share what we ‘learn,’” Jongdae could hear the bitter air-quotes, “ with the actual research team?”

“Dr. Han is doing fine work on his own.”

Sarai’s barked a laugh. “He’s been ‘on his own’ for far too long. Did you know he was performing ECT on Poseidon? I didn’t!”

“I’ll speak to him about that.”

Sarai paced back and forth, her agitation clear. “Just bring in the rest of the research team. They’re only working with samples from the Level 3 cases. They need to know about Level 4.”

“Level 3 provides more than enough data to inform our research for a treatment,” Choi disagreed, irritation beginning to creep into his voice. “Including the exceptional cases in our study serves no purpose and will only confound our results.”

“They aren’t exceptions,” Sarai argued. “The first is a fluke, a second makes coincidence, and three forms a pattern. You taught me that. Now there’s four. Four means there’s something we’ve missed.”

Jongdae counted on his fingers. Minseok, Poseidon, and Phoenix. _Who’s the fourth?_

“Vivus doesn’t work the way we think it does,” Sarai insisted. “If we don’t account for these outlier cases, we will never find a cure for this condition.”

“I’ll take your words under advisement,” Choi said. 

“But-”

Choi rapped his cane against the ground. “I’ve wasted enough time on this conversation. Our sponsors will be arriving shortly, and I still need to prepare a response to the Hong Kong situation. The research team is not your concern. Go do your job.” Sarai slammed her hand against the side of the nurses’ station before stomping back to the operating theater, and Choi continued on his way to the exit.

After the sounds of the two faded, Jongdae waited a few minutes more before cautiously crawling out of his hiding spot.

“Naughty.”

Jongdae leapt backward, slamming against the wall in surprise, expecting…expecting…

His heart slowly settled back into his chest as he gaped at the last thing he’d expected to see. A gun in his face, an army of scowling security guards, Han with a blowtorch, anything would have made more sense than Baekhyun lounging on top of the nurses’ station. Sucking on a lollipop. Wearing tight pink Pororo pajamas clearly meant for a little girl. 

“Isn’t there a law against eavesdropping?” Baekhyun tapped the candy against his lips, leaving little red stains. “Illegal Use of Ears or something like that?” 

Jongdae slapped on a poker face, struggling not to betray how completely dumbfounded he was by the kid’s presence.“You were spying, too,” he managed to say. _How long has Baekhyun been here?_

“True,” Baekhyun sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the desk. “But if the old man found me,” he pointed to himself with the lollipop, “lingering on Level 4 while he whispered dirty secrets in Sarai’s ear, he’d get frowny-faced. If he found you,” the candy slowly swiveled around to point at Jongdae, and Baekhyun shuddered in mock horror. “I can’t imagine.” 

Visions of Dr. Han’s blowtorch flashed through Jongdae’s head, and he had shake himself to get rid of the memory. If Baekhyun wanted to turn him in, he could’ve ratted him out when Sarai and the Director were still close by. Instead, he’d waited until they were gone to make his presence known. Jongdae leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk, nose to nose with Baekhyun, challenging him with his stare.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded.

Baekhyun broke eye contact first with an insouciant shrug. “I just want to watch the world burn.” 

He hopped off of the desk, forcing Jongdae to step back. He started to walk away, bare feet silent against the floor, then looked over his shoulder. “I’m curious to see what you’ll do,” he flicked his wrist and a blank employee badge clattered at Jongdae’s feet, “with that match in your pocket.”


	10. Trust I Betrayed I

                                          

Joonmyeon glanced up from his puzzle at the unexpected click of his door unlocking. Nothing happened, yet he could hear the door sliding open and closed. The sound of bare feet on the stone floor approached his bed, and the bed bounced a little, springs squeaking as something warm settled in his lap. Joonmyeon didn’t move through all of this, careful not to reveal his visitor’s presence to the guards watching through the security camera. Instead, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the water vapor that hung in the air. His fingers twitched slightly as he worked, repositioning each droplet until they formed an invisible shield of sound-absorbing fog between the bed and camera. 

He opened his eyes when the sound shield was finished surrounding them. “They can’t hear us,” he murmured, barely moving his lips. “Are you done with the veil?” 

“As long as you stay on the bed,” a disembodied voice said from his lap, “the only thing the creepers will see is you losing a hopeless battle with a sheet of colored cardboard.”

Glowing motes of light misted into the air around him as Baekhyun shimmered into view, his head in his lap, wearing the most ridiculous pair of pajamas Joonmyeon had ever seen.

“Why are you dressed like a pedophile?”

Baekhyun shrugged. “No-one can see me but you.”

Joonmyeon plucked at the glittery pink cartoon in the middle of Baekhyun’s shirt. “Who’s daughter is missing a birthday gift?”

“One of the number munchers on L1. The lazy fart is lucky I happened by before one of the patrols noticed his office was unlocked. He would’ve gotten fired.” 

“Your altruism knows no bounds,” Joonmyeon said drily, picking up a puzzle piece from the pile on his bed.

Baekhyun stretched out his shirt, admiring the sparkles. “Phoenix blew up his prison.”

The puzzle piece clattered back to the pile. “What?!” Joonmyeon levered Baekhyun upright, holding his shoulders. “What happened?”

“The only people who know for sure aren’t talking because their _faces were melted off!”_ Baekhyun pulled at his skin in a grotesque imitation.

“Be serious. Why would Phoenix do that? ”

“Because he’s awesome,” Baekhyun chuckled.

“Baek!” Joonmyeon said sharply, and Baekhyun sighed in exasperation.

“It was obviously another militia cock-up, but the old man is pretending not to know so he can keep his hands in their deep pockets.” He brushed Joonmyeon’s hands off of his shoulders. “They should’ve kept their end of the deal and left Phoenix alone.”

Joonmyeon fell silent. In the beginning, he’d been horrified when Baekhyun told him that the arsonist known across Asia as The Virus was one of them - a vivus outlier. He’d tried to understand the director’s draconian quarantine methods, rationalizing them as a necessary response to an extreme threat. He’d been courteous to his captors, never once resisting when they hauled him to ‘therapy sessions’ with Dr. Han. He’d never complained, even though the air exchangers in his room kept the air so dry that his skin cracked and bled and even breathing was a struggle. In the beginning, he’d hoped to show them they had nothing to fear from him. Now he hoped Phoenix would roast more of the cold-hearted bastards. 

Baekhyun spotted a white plastic cup on the floor and rolled across the bed to pick it up, shaking it experimentally. The contents sloshed thickly, and he eagerly unscrewed the top to reveal the beige, chalk-like sludge inside. He drained half the cup in two thirsty gulps, before letting loose with a satisfied belch.

“That’s the stuff dreams are made of.” He sat up and held out the cup to Joonmyeon. “Want the rest?” 

Joonmyeon waved it away, barely containing his disgust as Baekhyun polished off the rest of the sludge. “You make it seem so edible,” he noted.

Baekhyun scraped a finger around the inside of the cup, collecting the remnants. “It’s peanut butter flavored!” he exclaimed, sucking his finger. “How can you dislike that?”

Joonmyeon’s heart broke a little, and he just patted Baekhyun on the head.He couldn’t bring himself to tell him that this gritty, sour excuse for a food substitute tasted nothing like peanut butter. Ignorance was bliss.

“You seem hungry,” he said instead, changing the subject. “Long day?”

Baekhyun lit up with excitement, putting the cup down. “The director hired a new rookie! Ask me what he did today. Ask me.”

“What did the rookie do, Baekhyun?”

“He snuck onto Level 4!” 

Baekhyun was practically levitating with excitement, but Joonmyeon could only muster up a half-hearted, “Oh?” Baekhyun deflated instantly.

“Calm down, you’ll pull a muscle,” he said sarcastically.

Joonmyeon picked up another puzzle piece, twirling it in his fingers. “Should I be building a float for the ticker-tape parade?”

Baekhyun rolled his eyes. “The old man hires a rookie for the first time in years, and the first thing he does is ninja his way onto L4!” He jumped to his feet. “He even filmed a demo on his phone! He wears khakis, but I can fix that.” Baekhyun twirled in a tiny circle, scattering puzzle pieces. “This is historic! How are you not pumped? Joonmyeon?” Baekhyun stilled, noticing that something was wrong. “Hyung?”

Joonmyeon hadn’t heard anything past the word ‘demo,’ his vision hazing as a fist squeezed the air out of his chest. Memories crowded into his head. Baekhyun shuffling toward him across the crowded reception hall, the strange witchlight in his empty eyes glowing brighter with every step. Chattering sparks as the taser dumped thousands of volts into his body. The look of shame in his fiancee’s eyes. Dr. Han’s smile.

“Hyung!” Joonmyeon struggled to focus on Baekhyun’s voice, but he could feel the water forcing its way up his nose, choking down his throat.

“You’re safe. Everything’s fine.” Baekhyun held his hand, anchoring him to reality. “You’re safe. Everything’s fine.” Baekhyun kept repeating the mantra until Joonmyeon squeezed back, their signal for the end of the panic attack. Baekhyun knelt beside him, searching his face anxiously.

“Are you okay?” he asked apologetically.

Joonmyeon laid down stiffly on his side, covering his head with the pillow as he curled into a little ball. Baekhyun rubbed his back silently, waiting. 

When he felt like he could talk without crying, Joonmyeon said, “Han didn’t come for me.”

“We found another outlier this morning. They used him for the... the thing.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Baekhyun grimaced. “The old man plays things close to the vest. I thought it was a regular quarantine mission, right up until my watch skipped forward eight hours and I was back in Utah.”

_Eight hours._ Joonmyeon vividly remembered what his first eight hours had been like, and every excruciating hour after that. “We have to do something.” 

Baekhyun lifted the pillow so he could see Joonmyeon’s face. “Do what? Escape?”

Joonmyeon sat up slowly, leaning against the wall as he collected his thoughts. “Phoenix is on the loose. The director must have sent quarantine teams after him.”

“All but two,” Baekhyun confirmed. “But the militia stationed twice as many gunhuggers upstairs to make up for the loss in manpower.” He tapped the thin silver loop around Joonmyeon’s ankle. “You’ll set off the alarm as soon as you leave this room. All they have to do is block the only exit and wait.”

“We can at least try.” Joonmyeon’s jaw tightened in determination. “I can’t sit here while someone else lives my nightmares.”

“Even if you had a gate key, you wouldn’t be fast enough to make it to the exit before the guards block it off,” Baekhyun insisted. “Yeti is injured.”

Joonmyeon aimed a kick at Baekhyun’s head, and he sprawled backwards in surprise. “Never call him that again,” he ordered. “What’s his real name?”

“Minseok,” Baekhyun said, sitting up sheepishly.

“What do you mean injured?”

Baekhyun toyed with the hem of his shirt. “His ability has something to do with heat, like Phoenix. So, Psycho and the witch were using a blowtorch.”

“Bloody hell, Baekhyun.”

“What?!” Baekhyun asked, affronted. “I wasn’t the one with the power tools.”

Joonmyeon massaged his temples, letting his irritation ebb away. Baekhyun wasn’t the one he was angry with, he was just stating the facts. If Minseok couldn’t walk on his own, they needed a change of plans. “The rookie saw everything?”

“Yeah,” Baekhyun eyed him warily. “He followed the witch and filmed the whole thing. Why?”

“Do you think he’d help us escape?”

Baekhyun’s eyebrows lifted, and Joonmyeon could tell he hadn’t even considered the possibility. Sometimes it scared him how thoughtless Baekhyun could be. It made him wonder if he actually cared, or if he was just helping him because he was bored.

“The old man only recruits people that lost a family member to vivus. Rookie wouldn’t help a bunch of infected people just walk out,” Baekhyun mused, then smirked. “But I gave him a Level 4 master key earlier, so he owes me a favor.”

Joonmyeon reached for the pillow, and yanked some of the stuffing out of a nearly invisible gap in the seam. Feeling around with two fingers, he carefully eased a blue-striped keycard out of its hiding spot and held it up.

Baekhyun plucked it from his fingers, raising it reverently. “A gate key? How did you get this?”

“Magic,” Joonmyeon responded smugly, taking the card back. Dr. Han had been inattentive during his last visit, forgetting to adjust the humidity settings after a particularly rainy few days. The sticky air had been perfect for snatching the gate key from his ID holder. It had been so easy, he wondered why Baekyun hadn’t been able to steal one sooner. “It’s been a few days, but there’s a chance it still works right?”

Baekhyun nodded enthusiastically. “There’s still two more days before they change the code on the tunnel gate.” He frowned. “But this doesn’t solve your bling problem. You’ll still set off the alarms and you won’t be fast enough to beat the guards to the exit. You’re back to square one.”

Joonmyeon shook his head. “You can make it all the way out,” he corrected. “Minseok probably doesn’t have an anklet yet, so he won’t set off any alarms. You can leave tonight. Use the rookie if you need to.”

Baekhyun’s mouth dropped open. “Me?” 

Joonmyeon took Baekhyun’s hand and folded it around the card. “You’ve got a gate key now. You can veil yourself and Minseok so the guards don’t see you. It’ll be hours before anyone even notices you’re gone. But you have to go before they put an anklet on him.”

Baekhyun looked down at the card. “I-I-” his mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He cupped the card in both hands and handed it back to Joonmyeon. “You stole it,” he refused. “You should be the one to use it.”

“This isn’t about me,” Joonmyeon argued, pushing the card away firmly. “You have to take Minseok out of this place before they break him or kill him.” Baekhyun moved to give the card back again, and Joonmyeon slapped it away, kicking out one leg to reveal the coil around his ankle. 

“If I go, they’ll catch all of us.” He grasped Baekhyun’s hands pleadingly. “If you miss this chance, it might be months before we get another one. Go now. Get Minseok out of this hellhole. ”

Baekhyun looked him in the eye. “If you stay, we all stay,” he said quietly.

Joonmyeon felt the card sliding into his fingers, and his hands dropped numbly to his side. 

“I’ll find another way,” Baekhyun promised, climbing off the bed, and Joonmyeon stared blankly at the place where Baekhyun had been. “It might take some time, but we’ll figure it out.” Baekhyun walked slowly to the door, his hands outstretched, the air around him beginning to glow.

“Baek,” Joonmyeon called out, still holding his sound shield in place. The shining motes floating in the air paused in their journey back to Baekhyun, and the other boy looked back, eyebrows raised. 

_You don’t want me to leave, do you?_ Joonmyeon wanted to say it out loud just so Baekhyun could scoff in his face and tell him he was being paranoid.

“Come back soon,” he said instead. 

Baekhyun smiled, and the glow in the room intensified, growing brighter until Joonmyeon had to cover his eyes. When he opened them again, he was alone.


	11. The Family You Choose VII

                                          

Kyungsoo burst into the motel room to find Chanyeol sitting at the edge of the bed, fully dressed and castless, arranging his wig. The arsonist sprang to his feet as Kyungsoo staggered to a confused halt.

“Did you find a car?” Chanyeol asked. 

Kyungsoo’s mouth dropped open as he stared at Chanyeol, apparently whole and healthy though he’d been apparently bedridden only hours before.

“How?” he managed.

Chanyeol jerked a thumb towards the little pile of scorched plaster chunks near the foot of the bed. “I burned out the lining, and the rest was easy.”

That didn’t answer Kyungsoo’s question at all, but his followup was forestalled when the power in the entire motel snapped off. The windowless room was plunged into complete darkness, the appliances dying with a groan, and Kyungsoo belatedly remembered the reason he’d been running in the first place.

“They found us.”

A radio squealed into the new quiet as the muffled thunder of tactical boots gathered into position outside their door.

“Do you trust me?” Chanyeol whispered.

“I did before you asked me that,” Kyungsoo retorted, his teeth beginning to chatter with nerves. He’d never imagined himself on the receiving end of a SWAT team’s forcible entry. He might know some of them. He wondered if it would hurt.

“Get in the tub and fill it with as much cold water as you can.”

“What?” Kyungsoo couldn’t imagine how that would help.

Something began glowing faintly red, intensifying bit by bit until Kyungsoo realized they were Chanyeol’s eyes, looking right at him.

“Get in the tub, Kyungsoo.” 

Kyungsoo stood frozen for a moment as heat blossomed in the middle of Chanyeol’s chest spreading fingerlike through his veins, illuminating his body from within. The furnace blast rolled over him in the next second and Kyungsoo stumbled backwards, scrambling into the bathroom. He frantically cranked the knobs, throwing hasty looks over his shoulder as water thundered into the basin. The air shimmered with heat as the wallpaper wrinkled and charred off of the walls. Tiny flames flickered over the surface of the towels, tendrils of smoke rising dark and sooty into the air. Kyungsoo began coughing immediately, his skin tingling in remembrance of the barely-healed burns from the prison fire. He splashed himself with water to stop his clothes from igniting, only to have the water steam away as fast as he could apply it.

Gunfire splintered the flimsy wooden door between one breath and the next. Fresh air, thick with oxygen, sucked into the room like an inhale, and the whole world erupted in fire. The backdraft shoved Kyungsoo face first into the tub, drowning him in the liquid coolness, the screams of the SWAT team dim against the greedy roar of the fire that consumed them.

Then Chanyeol was dragging him out of the water and into the black-gold inferno. Kyungsoo barely had time to feel the sting of the water boiling off of his body as he stumbled behind Chanyeol, their interlocked hands a lifeline as they careened through the molten chaos. The surge of fleeing humanity, deranged by terror, clawed and fought in the claustrophobic halls to escape the blaze, the fallen writhing as they were trampled underfoot. Flaming curtains raced along the walls and ceiling, chasing the survivors. They slammed through a narrow stairwell door and Kyungsoo lost his footing, tumbling down a flight of stairs, flailing as he was battered against the wall by the sea of knees and uncaring feet. Then Chanyeol was there again, hauling him upright, almost carrying him as they sprinted out of the exit into the evening air, shouldering their way through the small crowd of horrified onlookers that had gathered to watch the tragedy unfold. 

A quartet of unmarked vans barricaded the road, the group of black-garbed guards out of position, their attention fixed on the motel. Kyungsoo bulldozed through the distracted guards, disarming one of them with a panel-denting bodyslam into the side of their truck. He snatched the man’s pistol and turned to the others, only to find them already a half-block away, running for their lives. For the first time since the lights went out, he got a good look at his partner. Chanyeol was fire incarnate, glowing incandescent beneath the thick streaks of black sooty grime and smoke, his hair white and standing on end, clothes burnt to tatters, the tar around his bare feet beginning to bubble. Kyungsoo ran away from him without a second thought.

It took several blocks for Chanyeol to catch up with him, and he grabbed Kyungsoo’s hand from behind, wrenching him to a stop. Kyungsoo whipped out the pistol he’d stolen, aiming at Chanyeol’s forehead as pedestrians scattered from the confrontation. The arsonist wasn’t glowing anymore— he looked more like a snow-haired beggar than a wrathful god—but Kyungsoo could still smell the smoke wafting off of their clothes. Sirens wailed in the distance.

“What are you?” he demanded, jaw gritted, finger tight on the trigger. 

Chanyeol sighed gustily, his hands resting on his hips as he tried to catch his breath. “We don’t have time for this, Kyungsoo.”

Kyungsoo’s knuckles whitened as the trigger inched backwards. “There was never any bomb, was there? It was just you.”

“Every time,” Chanyeol muttered to himself. As he ruffled his hair with his fingers, little flakes of char rained down. “I thought you understood.”

Kyungsoo scoffed. “Don’t play the victim. How many innocent people are dying right now because of you!?”

“They weren’t cops.” Chanyeol tried to explain, pointing back the way they’d come. “It was the-”

“Forget the militia!” Kyungsoo raged. “It was you! You! You just _murdered_ people!”

“They shot first,” Chanyeol corrected, dusting off his hands. “Everything that happened afterward was just…karma.”

Kyungsoo just gaped at him, the muzzle of the gun dipping as his arms went watery.

_Had Chanyeol always been this heartless?_ Kyungsoo tried to remember every conversation they’d ever had, racking his brain for details as the gun grew heavy in his hands. Chanyeol never talked about his victims. He never mentioned the body count or asked about the survivors. He’d never expressed guilt. In the two years since they’d met, in all the conversations they’d had, Chanyeol had never once apologized. 

Their conversation in the hospital room, only a few days ago, came back to him in a rush. Tell Jongdae I’m sorry. Kyungsoo’s own words, parroted back at him, had been the start of this whole thing. He’d been blinded by those four little words, suckered into believing Chanyeol had a real, beating heart inside his chest. 

“Kyungsoo-yah.” Kyungsoo snapped the gun back into position from where it had sagged, and one side of Chanyeol’s mouth quirked. “Do you remember the last time we were like this?” 

“I arrested you,” Kyungsoo said. The arsonist took a step forward, and Kyungsoo took one back, maintaining the distance between them. 

“You weren’t supposed to,” Chanyeol reminded him, his eyes intense. “Everyone followed orders, except you.”

Kyungsoo swallowed hard, the memory of that night still vivid in his mind’s eye. _Fresh out of training, he’d been drafted into the massive AntiVirus campaign. Law enforcement from all over Korea blanketed Seoul, news and police helicopters capturing every moment for the citizens huddled inside their homes. Separated from his team during a rooftop chase, Kyungsoo had somehow ended up in a narrow, deserted back alley, face to face with the Virus. The arsonist been completely disheveled, caked with filth and soot, his ragged clothes still steaming from the firebomb he’d set off in another team’s faces just a few minutes before. Kyungsoo had leveled his gun at him on instinct, his radio blaring swear-filled cries of his comrades as they struggled to extinguish the flames. Everything he’d been told about the Virus’ ruthlessness and utter disregard for human life had flashed through his mind, punctuated by his captain’s impassioned command to “Shoot the bastard on sight.” His finger had tightened on the trigger, but he never pulled it. Instead, his voice cracking with fear, gun shaking wildly, Kyungsoo had told the infamous Virus, the Plague of Asia, unrepentant murderer of hundreds, that he was under arrest. And then watched in complete disbelief as the ostensibly psychopathic arsonist had simply handcuffed himself and settled into a comfortable sitting position as they waited for the rest of Kyungsoo’s team to find them. As the media salivated over the rookie cop that ended the “Reign of Fire” and captured its nameless, angel-faced perpetrator, Kyungsoo had been asked countless times why he didn’t shoot, and his answer had always been the same._

“You were unarmed, and you didn’t threaten me.”

Chanyeol took another step forward, and this time Kyungsoo didn’t step back. “I wasn’t unarmed.” 

Kyungsoo snorted a laugh, despite himself. “At the time, I was unaware you could start fires with your mind.”

“You know now.” Chanyeol took another step forward, his chest grazing the muzzle of the gun. “And here we are again.”

Kyungsoo set his jaw mulishly, pressing the gun into Chanyeol’s chest so hard it would leave a mark.

“If you’d like to arrest me, I’ll even handcuff myself again,” Chanyeol suggested, his tone cheerful. 

Kyungsoo looked up at him, ready to spit out an angry reply, but the bitter retort died in his mouth. Chanyeol’s eyes were fixed on something behind him, resignation in his eyes. Kyungsoo risked a glance over his shoulder. The SWAT team had caught up on them. Uniformed cops were silently waving pedestrians away from the danger zone as the tactical team spread out all over the street, weapons drawn. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he noted that their combat gear was dark blue. _Our SWAT team doesn’t wear black. How could I have missed that?_ Kyungsoo’s shoulders slumped as he turned back, and dozens of red laser sights clustered over Chanyeol’s heart. He looked down slowly at his own chest to find another target blooming there. 

“Everyone thinks I burn things for no reason,” Chanyeol said absently, brushing at his new chest ornament as the air around him began to shimmer. “I don’t.”

Kyungsoo released his grip on the rapidly warming gun, letting the weapon dangle harmlessly from one finger as he held up his hands.

“Surrender,” he hissed between his teeth.

“Tried that before.” Chanyeol grinned crookedly. “Didn’t work out so well in the end.”

“I’ll testify for you. I’ll tell them everything I know, everything I’ve seen. I’ll make sure the militia never comes after you again. Just end it here. No more fires. No more death. Just stop.”

Chanyeol’s eyes glowed, lit from within. “You first.” When Kyungsoo’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, Chanyeol laughed tiredly. “I’ve only gotten this far because of you.” Kyungsoo shook his head in vehement rejection, but Chanyeol kept talking. “The night we first met. The prison. The hospital. Today. I really should be dead by now. But you keep helping.”

The SWAT team leader began shouting something, but it was just nonsense noise. Kyungsoo could only see the motel, its hallway full of people dying horribly. Because of him. He could still smell their ashes on his clothes.

“Walk away, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol said softly. The air was still shimmering around him, but there was no furnace-blast of heat this time. The glow in his eyes died out slowly, replace with gray exhaustion. “Just end it here. No more fires. No more death. Just stop.”

Kyungsoo turned stiffly to face the SWAT team. Slowly, bit by bit, their commands coalesced in his mind, their meaning and intentions clear. _Get out of the way._

Kyungsoo walked away, his legs heavy and wooden. One step. Two. Three. The targeting sights disappeared from his chest. He looked back at Chanyeol, alone in the middle of the street, painted red with laser light. He hadn’t moved an inch, he was just staring at the spot where Kyungsoo had been. Kyungsoo knew that the second Chanyeol moved— if he looked up, if he balled a fist, if he took a deep breath—they were going to shoot him. He knew. The SWAT team , the police holding back the crowd, the citizens filming every moment on their phones, were rapt with anticipation and silent as the grave. Everyone focused on the still figure in the street, waiting for him to realize he was a dead man.

Kyungoo’s steps stopped at the police line, beside an empty van. One more step and he would outside the circle. This would all be over. One more step. His knees turned to jelly and he leaned heavily on the van, rocking it back and forth. The slight noise pulled the attention of the closest cop, and the young woman stared at him strangely. He knew her. They’d been on the same team once during training. She’d been nice. Her eyes widened as he raised his pistol with one hand, pointing it at her forehead. The fingers of his other hand found the bumper of the van, wedging onto the grooves and openings for a good grip. He waved the pistol at his former colleague. _Get out of the way._

Then Kyungsoo lifted the van.


	12. Interlude

                                          

Kyungsoo sat in the shadows outside of the tiny corner mart they’d just robbed, the puddle of illumination from the weak streetlight lapping at the toes of his shoes. The elderly shopkeeper had been watching the news when they’d walked in, the ubiquitous little bell above the door jingling in welcome. She’d jumped up immediately, thrilled to have customers until she spotted Korea’s Most Wanted cleaning out her shelves of steamed buns. Kyungsoo had tried to press a few bills into her hands, but she’d beat him off, wailing in fear, and hobbled away, the payment fluttering to the floor in her wake. Chanyeol had paid the shopkeeper zero attention, leaving the store with his pilfered goods even before she’d managed to lock herself into her small storeroom. Kyungsoo didn’t have the heart to break down the door and scare her more, so he’d simply cut the phone line running along the ceiling and pocketed the cellphone she’d abandoned on the checkout counter.

An empty wrapper skittered through the pool of lamplight, evidence of another carbohydrate casualty, the eighth Kyungsoo had counted in as many minutes. On the other side of the streetlamp, Chanyeol wolfed down a bun in two massive bites, cheeks bulging as he ripped open the next package. Kyungsoo snatched the ninth wrapper as it rolled by, harried by the stiff breeze. He stared at the flimsy piece of cellophane pinched between his fingers, still bearing the creamy innards of its former occupant, and a giggle bubbled up in his chest. He fought it down, masking the sudden sound with a stern throat clearing, but the naked little bun wrappers just kept coming. The tenth blew by, red bean paste smeared along its edge, and Kyungsoo smothered another snicker before giving up entirely. Laughing hysterically wasn’t exactly the proper response to their current situation, but there really wasn’t anything else he could do.

He finally had proof that Chanyeol was innocent. It was basic thermodynamics: every fire cost him literal calories and Chanyeol had to replace them somehow. Fuel up with a plate of ddukbokki, and light a match. Light up a motel, and halmeoni’s bakery section pays the price. But there’d been no binge before or after the prison fire. In fact, between initial sneak attack and the days he’d spent in the hospital, Chanyeol hadn’t eaten anything. Chanyeol’s first law: if there is fire, there must be food. 

Not that it mattered anymore. What sane court of law would believe them? 

_He’s innocent, Your Honor. Because thermodynamics, Your Honor._

_No, not every fire, Your Honor, just the one that killed my best friend. To be fair, he was probably provoked into starting the other ones._

_By who? A super-secret, ultra-prepared, scarily connected organization that’s apparently dedicated to killing him. Ha-ha, Your Honor. Good one, Your Honor. I’m being serious, Your Honor._

Kyungsoo let the empty wrapper flutter away, his attention drawn to the grimy oil staining his palms. He wrapped his fingers together, making a small fist, but it felt unnatural. Jongdae had always been the fighter in their trio, Yoondae brought the charm and scathing wit, and Kyungsoo was the quiet one with clever hands. He opened his hand again, flexing the joints until they popped. He remembered the strain of raising the police van above his head, the twinging pull in his back and shoulders of lifting something far too heavy but not quite beyond his limit. He remembered the surge of roaring ferocity when he’d launched the van at the line of dumbfounded police. He remembered the unadulterated glee that fizzed through his veins as he’d snagged Chanyeol’s arm to drag him away in the tumult. Another Kyungsoo had come out to play, and he was reckless, strong, and a little bit cruel.

It scared him how easy it had been. But not as much as it should have.

He pulled out the shopkeeper’s phone and dialed the number that had always been number one in his speed dial. His heart pounded in his throat as the phone rang, seeking. _Pick up,_ he begged silently. 

“The customer you have dialed—” The wave of disappointment was so strong it took his breath away, “is not available right now. If you would like to leave a message, place one after the tone.” _Beep._

“ _Hyung._ ” Kyungsoo let the phone drop to his knee as he took a breath to steady himself, scrubbing his palms clean against his jeans. He didn’t know what to say. After everything that had happened, what if Jongdae was done with him? “ _What do I do now?_ ”

~~~

As people crowded into the conference room, Jongdae glanced surreptitiously down at the phone between his knees, its screen dimmed to barest visibility to avoid notice. Unsurprisingly, not a single bar. He’d ventured to the facilities’ highest point, the edge of the underground parking lot, in search of signal last night, only to find the entry tunnel blocked off by a steel gate. Nothing he tried would make it budge, not even the magical blank keycard that had gotten him out of Level Four. Jongdae eyed the card’s former owner as he pocketed his phone. Baekhyun was slouched so far underneath the conference table that only his head was visible, apathetic teen disguise firmly in place. He stood out like a beacon in the sea of dark suits and business faces, his hair sparkling with just enough glitter to be noticeable, bobbing his head slightly to whatever was pumping through his earbuds. Yet, he received no judgmental looks , no double-takes, no sideways glances; instead people’s gazes slid over Baekhyun like he wasn’t even there.

Director Choi entered the room, instantly quieting the chatter and interrupting Jongdae’s scrutiny. His tie was loose and his thinning hair wisped about his head as it he’d been tugging at it in frustration all night. As if that wasn’t alarming enough, he was trailed by another, much taller man clad in a bespoke suit that dripped money from the hand-stitched seams. Career soldier, Jongdae’s instincts told him. Career commander, he amended as the man settled confidently into a parade rest by Director Choi’s side.

“Our teams in Korea have been lost,” Director Choi said without preamble. Dismay rippled through the room, and Jongdae’s heart dropped into his stomach. “The militia squads stationed here will be dispatched to Korea within the hour to track down and neutralize the vivus threat.”

A black-uniformed guard from the overkill brigade raised a fist, her tactical gear rasping with the motion. “Are we still being paired with quarantine teams?”

Director Choi’s mouth twisted as the impeccably dressed commander stepped forward to speak.

“Up to this point, the primary objective of this operation was quarantine and containment. To that end, militia and quarantine teams cooperated with local forces to locate and capture the rogue vivus subject. However,” the suited soldier threw an unmistakable sneer in Director Choi’s direction, “due to the very public escalation of the situation, and the extensive losses on both sides, the militia will be taking sole responsibility for Operation Phoenix from now on.”

_Phoenix._ Jongdae remembered the outlier codename, and the bits and pieces he had overheard began slotting together. _Phoenix is that damned arsonist. But that means Kyungsoo…_

Director Choi’s jaw was jumping in irritation as he picked up a presentation remote from the table and pressed a button. A grainy video lit up the wall behind him, paused on an unfamiliar Seoul street illuminated with the waning twilight and the neon signs of nighttime businesses. 

Through gritted teeth, Choi began, “After the militia team staged an poorly planned raid on Phoenix’s location—”

“A raid based on intel from your Guardian network that suggested Phoenix was alone and incapacitated at the time,” the commander interjected.

“A raid that completely neglected all rules of engagement regarding Phoenix including the most basic directive: _don’t threaten his life—”_

“But would have succeeded if he hadn’t been warned by his accomplice when intel _clearly_ said he was alone—”

Jongdae slammed his fist onto the table as he rose to his feet, the sound startling the two feuding leaders into momentary silence. “What happened to Kyungsoo?” he demanded.

Choi pressed another button on his remote, and stepped to one side, letting the video speak for him.

In the middle of the street stood a lone figure too far away to make out clearly despite the camera wielder’s attempts to zoom past the row of police holding back the crowd. The SWAT team leader’s shouted commands echoed off of the buildings, the tension in the street palpable. Then, from offscreen, a massive disturbance. Shouts of alarm ripped through the quiet, and the crowd surged away from the unseen threat. The camera whirled dizzily in its search for the source of the confusion, catching a man holding the police van over his head.The video froze in the split second, the guards and analysts in the conference room murmuring in surprise at the feat. Jongdae sank back into his seat, goosebumps snaking up his arms as he absorbed the man’s face, a little muddied by the low resolution but still clearly visible and most importantly, instantly recognizable to anyone that knew him.

“Kyungsoo would never…” Jongdae trailed off as the man on the screen swung the van back and forth like it weighed no more than a wiffle bat, clearing a path, clobbering a few cops who weren’t fast enough to dodge. The van went flying toward the SWAT team a moment later and mayhem erupted onscreen as everyone scrambled to get out of its path.

“Those people were like family to us. A brotherhood.” Jongdae’s voice caught in his throat as the shock began settling deep into his bones. “Kyungsoo would never…” he snapped his mouth shut when he heard himself. Repeating it over and over wouldn’t make it true. 

“He’s not the person you used to know anymore,” Choi explained, a note of sympathy in his voice. “We suspected it from the beginning, and his recent behavior confirms it - he’s been infected.” Across the table, Baekhyun looked up for the first time, locking eyes with Jongdae.

The commander strutted to the center of the room.“Phoenix is once again an imminent danger to society, and with an accomplice in the mix, all previous rules of engagement are rendered null and void.” He tapped his forehead. “Give no warning and aim right between the eyes, ladies and gentlemen. Our enemy will not allow a second shot.”


	13. That Stranger You Pity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drug use

                                          

_The arsonist known as the Virus is still on the run after a confrontation with Korean authorities last night. Details of the event are sketchy, but eyewitnesses reported seeing a group of armed men apparently launching a raid on the Sola Motel just minutes before a fire broke out on the fourth floor. That fire claimed more than a dozen lives and is assumed to be the work of the Virus. In an emergency press conference, the police denied any involvement in the Sola Motel incident. According to their official reports, police teams had the fugitive surrounded on an open street when an unidentified accomplice used a vehicle to break the police line, injuring several officers in the process. Bystander videos from both events have gone viral on several sites, including Naver, Baidu, and Youtube and appear to show a person lifting a police van…_

Kris switched off the radio as his GPS guided him to a stately villa, and he pulled his car into the villa’s tiny lot. He adjusted his cuff links and tie, smoothing his hair in the reflection off his window. He noted the care taken to preserve the privacy of the villa’s occupants— trailing vines and tall flowering bushes hid the windows of the first floor from view. The door, Tiffany stained-glass set in mahogany, opened into a small, marble-floored foyer, the smell of old money wafting on every breath. Kris toed the smooth floor despite himself as a young woman in a tailored pink nurse’s uniform approached, her platform heels clicking.

“Mr. Wu?” she smiled, perfect teeth flashing as she bowed in greeting. “The tour of our facility has just started. Please follow me.”

Kris followed obediently, admiring the rear view as she led him down a hallway with vaulted ceilings to a spacious sitting room, hardwood gleaming from every surface. They joined a pair of couples who were standing just inside the room’s entrance, listening to their guide’s rehearsed spiel. With one glance, Kris tallied the tiny group to have a robsworth of over a hundred thousand, and that was just from the men’s watches. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the brand names on the women’s purses, but judging by the stitching on the handles, there was probably a few hundred grand hanging off of their arms. He didn’t pickpocket anymore, that was for snot-nosed street kids trying to prove themselves, but the sight of all that money just dangling out in the open brought back memories. 

The occupants of the sitting room milled around in various states of dress, some in pajamas, others dressed in more typical daytime clothes, and one elderly man in a full tuxedo, the once-crisp white shirt stained and creased with daily wear and tear. A pink-clad nurse stood behind a dispensary disguised as a wet bar in one corner, handing out shot-glasses of medication to the line of patients forming up in front of her. A pair of orderlies stealthily made their way across the room towards the line as Kris’s group watched in fascination. The orderlies’ starched white uniforms and imposing size parted the sea of patients like sharks, conversations stuttering off into silence in their wake. They sidled up to either side of a young man standing near the front of the medication line, effectively trapping him between the dispensary’s sturdy wood and the line of curious patients still awaiting their daily allotment of mind-altering drugs. The young man held still for half a second, then made a dash for the door.

“How did they know he wasn’t going to take the medication?” The richer of the two husbands in their group turned his bespectacled, judging gaze to their guide, the director of the psychiatric center. 

The doctor returned the look with a self-assured sniff and straightened his double breasted suit. “Our staff is fully capable of assessing mood and anticipating the actions of some of our more unruly guests. Yixing has been a tenant of ours for quite some time, so our caregivers know him well enough to act preemptively.”

Kris squinted in disbelief at the rangy kid currently writhing about in the middle of the floor. He had the larger, much less flexible orderlies bellowing in pain as they contorted themselves into impossible stances to stay on top of him. After a brief but impressive struggle, they managed to immobilize the kid and stab a needle into his thigh. The cocktail needed only seconds to take effect, and the burlier of the orderly pair gathered Yixing into a weirdly gentle cradlehold and carried him out of the room, past the wide-eyed observers.

“Yixing goes back to his room to rest on days like these,” the director explained in a creamy tone. “It’s best if he doesn’t interact with the other patients when he’s agitated. When other patients act out, they receive similar treatment. Maintaining our atmosphere of civility and healing requires the removal of a few problem personalities from time to time, as I’m sure you can agree.”

That sounded like a steaming pile to Kris, but the rich people were nodding in agreement, no doubt making plans to rid themselves of weird uncles or druggie daughters posthaste. He tuned out of the doctor’s blather about caring and compassion, drumming his fingers against his arm as he surveyed the room again. Boss had been crystal clear on the purpose of this trip: find the rogue heroin dealer, burn his operation to the ground, and, if time allowed, cut out his tongue. There was no universe in which ‘I couldn’t find him’ satisfied those requirements, and Kris rather liked his ears where they were. He chewed a fingernail as he mentally paged through his options.

All of his sources had pointed him to this psych center as the source of the ‘unicorn’ that had been sucking up all of the local business. He’d used up his supply of acid tipped needles, so he doubted any of them had been lying—not purposefully anyway. He’d bought his way into this exclusive tour expecting to find an enterprising staff member dealing out of the center’s bottomless supply of top-shelf pharmaceuticals. Kris would have introduced himself, informed the moron that this clinic sat firmly within the territory of the Hong Kong 14K, and gotten his knives a little dirty to demonstrate the organization’s dissatisfaction with direct competitors. His point would have been made, and he would be back home before daybreak. But this place was locked down so tight there was no way for him to snoop around without a perky nurse appearing to ‘assist’. He needed a better way in. He resisted the urge to start biting his thumbnail, remembering of the stack of bills he’d forked over for the (pointless) manicure and (dope as) haircut Boss had insisted on for this job. Maybe fresh air would help.

A shining Bugatti pulled into an empty spot in the clinic’s parking lot as Kris lounged against the wall, baking in early morning sun. Kris followed it with his eyes— even in a lot full of Porsches and Ferraris, a car that luxe stood out. A middle-aged white man in a crocodile golf shirt and khaki’s emerged from the car, then pulled a large bundle of fleecy blankets from the back seat. Kris affected a bored, disinterested air, wishing he had a smoke or something to make his standing outside seem less conspicuous. Fortunately, the _gweilo_ breezed by Kris like he was just another plant on his brisk march to the entrance. Kris got a glimpse into the blankets, though, and realized the man was carrying a small girl. He didn’t know how she wasn’t dying of heat stroke, swaddled in all that fabric in this heat, but her knitted beanie and lack of eyebrows were a telling clue. As they disappeared into the clinic, Kris peeled his now-sweaty back off of the wall and followed them inside.

Nurse Rear View stepped into his path at the foyer, blocking him from following them further.

“Can I help you, Mr. Wu?” she asked brightly. “The rest of your tour is upstairs, viewing our guest suites.”

“I want the tour they’re having,” Kris said, moving to follow the father-daughter pair again.

“They’re going to a private consultation,” the nurse explained apologetically, still blocking his way. Kris rolled his eyes. A super-rich dad with a cancer kid in a psych hospital? They were here for miracle drugs. He pulled out his wallet, slipping out a one-thousand HKD note. The nurse’s eyes glittered.

“Put me on the schedule.”

Kris bounced his heel against the edge of his chair, checking his watch again as he sat in a plush waiting room. The nurse had practically pounced on his money and deposited him here, but an hour later, he was beginning to wonder if he should have torn the bill in half first. Then in walked Pill Pusher, the orderly that had carried Yixing away earlier. He settled on the couch across from Kris, crossing his legs and arranging a clipboard across his knees.

“I understand you’d like a private consultation?”

Kris’ eyes narrowed. Pill Pusher was fishing for a code word, probably the name of a reference or a current client. Of course an operation like this would have some security. “Mandoo Wang told me I should visit,” he said, studying his nails. “Life hasn’t been any fun lately, so I’m looking for a little spice.”

Pill Pusher’s eyes traveled up and down Kris’ frame, taking in the tiny diamonds winking in the trim of his shoes and the platinum-graphite weave on his watch. “I think we can fix your problem,” he said, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Your prescription should be ready tomorrow morning. Cash on delivery.”

Kris smiled tightly. “How about today?”

Pill Pusher shrugged as he stood to his feet, tucking the clipboard under his arm. “Our prescriptions are made-to-order to guarantee quality. I’m afraid tomorrow morning is the earliest it will be available.” He turned to leave.

Kris sighed. Honestly, he would never understand how people just turned their backs on their fellow human beings. It was such a dangerous thing to do. His butterfly knife was out and pressed against the Pill Pusher’s carotid artery before the orderly could take two steps, and the man froze, his hand outstretched to towards the waiting room door.

“Made-to-order?” Kris said pleasantly. “I’d love to see how.”

Pill Pusher swallowed hard as the knife left his neck, touching the indentation it had left behind to check for blood. “This way.”

The orderly led him to the top floor of the villa, Kris’ unfamiliar presence drawing more than a few looks from the patients and staff as they walked past. Pill Pusher stopped in front of a door marked ‘Supplies’ at the very end of the hall, and reluctantly gestured toward it. Kris couldn’t help but notice that the patient room right across from the supply closet was marked ‘Z. Yixing.’ “You first,” he told his guide.

As suspected, the supply closet was not a closet at all and held no supplies. Instead, a masked orderly, Pill Pusher’s partner-in-crime from that morning, looked up in surprise from the batch of rose-colored unicorn he was squirting into fancy little jars. 

“Uh,” he managed, and Kris wiggled his knife in the air. “Oh.”

Kris closed the door behind them and ambled over to perch on the prep-table. He picked up one of the jars.

“How much does one of these go for?”

The two orderlies exchanged looks. “Fifty?” Pill Pusher lied.

“Is five thousand what you meant to say? I think you meant five thousand.”

The orderlies exchanged looks again. “Five thousand for the first dose. 5% pure.”

Kris dipped a pinkie into a bag of white power lying open on the table and took a lick, smacking a little at the bitter taste. “High quality,” he approved. “At least you’re not stealing our business with baby powder. What’s the other 95%?” Mandoo said unicorn gave highs more intense and longer-lasting than pure crack, but if it was only 5% horse, what was the magical horn?

Pill Pusher’s eyes wandered over a tray of red-filled test-tubes, so Kris reached past him and picked up one up. “Zhang, Yixing -- 05/08 -- Type A,” he read. He picked up another tube, and the label was the same. “You’re cutting heroin with this guy’s blood?” Kris asked incredulously. “Is that why you’re charging so much?” He pried the rubber stopper out of the test tube with a little pop and sniffed the contents. “Is he the messiah or something?” 

“Or something,” Pill Pusher muttered.

Kris raised his eyebrows at him. “Don’t stop now.”

“It heals people,” Pill Pusher admitted, shrugging off the glare of his partner. “He’d find out eventually.”

The _gweilo_ and his daughter popped into Kris’ mind. “You found the cure to cancer, and you’re selling it for five thousand HK a pop?!”

“Temporary cure,” Pill Pusher held up his hands defensively. “Whatever they’ve got always comes back. Usually they relapse in 24 hours, sometimes it can be longer. It’s hella addictive, but you can’t take another dose until the first one wears off.”

Now Kris was afire with curiosity. “Why not?”

“It’s fatal,” Pill Pusher poked one of the vials of blood. “Take more than one drop of Yixing’s blood, and, cold or cancer, you’re a corpse in less than a day.”

Kris gingerly stoppered the vial he was holding and set it carefully on the table. He pulled out his cell, pointing the tip of his knife at Pill Pusher and his partner for silence as he thumbed the speed dial. The phone only rang once.

“Boss. We need to talk about unicorn.”

~~~

Kris spotted the black, imported sedan driving down the street and flagged it down, guiding it to the empty parking space he’d been guarding. As soon as it parked, he slid into the passenger seat and bowed as deeply as he could to the driver.

“Mr. Yong,” he greeted, holding out a bottle of his leader’s favorite iced coffee. “Did you have a good trip?”

The short, balding man eyed the coffee for a moment, then accepted it grumpily, the seams of his Armani suit straining with the flex of his muscles as he tipped it to his mouth. Half of it disappeared in a single gulp, and he dropped the bottle into the cup holder by his side. “You were supposed to handle this on your own,” he groused. “But you make me come all the way down here to hold your hand and ask me if I had a good trip?”

Kris maintained his respectful bow even though it was giving him a major neck cramp in this tight space. “I thought you would want to see the operation here in person,” he explained. “I’m sure you won’t find this to be a waste of your time.”

Yong snorted in derision. “Are you willing to bet your hand?”

Kris raised his head slightly, stiffening. “Eh?”

Yong took another long swallow of the coffee, leaving only the dregs to slosh in the empty bottle. “You show me what was so important that you had the gall to call me personally and order me down here. If I don’t like it, you start learning how to write lefty.”

Icy sweat beaded on Kris’ brow at the threat. Yong kept an axe in the trunk of his car, and Kris had seen him rubbing flecks of burgundy from its sharp edge more than once over the years. “Follow me, sir,” was the only thing he could think of to say, and he slid out the car. 

Walking swiftly, he led his boss to the top floor, and pushed open the door to the supply closet.

“These are the two I told you about, sir,” he explained, waving a hand toward the two orderlies he’d left gagged and hogtied on the floor. “I looked at their record books. Over half of their clients used to buy from us, and the rest are rich or foreigners or both, looking for a miracle cure rather than a high.”

“Gullible morons,” Yong said simply. A day ago, Kris would have agreed. But he’d in the few hours it had taken his boss to get here, he’d tracked down the _gweilo_ and his daughter to a hotel in the tourist district. One look at the daughter, her face practically glowing as she bounced around the hotel lobby had been enough to confirm everything the orderlies had told him. One look at the father, and he knew the _gweilo_ would buy a little glass jar every day for the rest of his daughter’s life or until his wallet ran out, whichever came first. Once the 14K took over the unicorn operation, they would drain that _gweilo_ dry.

“You have my attention,” Yong said, rolling one of the vials of blood between his fingers. “Let’s see the results.”

Kris tapped his fingers together, trying not to betray his confusion, but Yong saw through him. He plucked a syringe from a box on one of the shelves, and expertly filled it from one of the dose jars. Then he tossed it to Kris and threw his chin toward the two orderlies. “Impress me.”

Pill Pusher started scooting away from Kris immediately, caterpillaring his way across the room. His partner was much slower on the uptake, so he became Kris’ guinea pig. Kris dragged his blade across the man’s arm, drawing a shrilly cry and a deep-welling line of blood. Then he injected him with the contents of the syringe. The high hit in four seconds, the man’s eyes rolling back in his head, skin flushing as he sagged into the euphoria. The long cut closed up a few moments later, the blood bubbling a little as it flash-hardened into a scab, then cracked apart, revealing healed flesh and only the faintest of scars.

Pill Pusher stared from his spot on the floor as Kris straightened from his crouch. Judging from his slack jaw around the sock stuffed in his mouth, they’d never tried out unicorn’s effect on injuries. Too bad. If they’d gone legit with this stuff, they’d be filthy rich instead of tied up in front of triad boss.

“You said more than one dose is fatal?” Yong tossed another one of the jars to Kris. “Let’s see that too.”

Kris looked down at the orderly he’d just shot up. “You want me to kill him?”

“Never carry a gun you haven’t seen work.” Yong quoted his personal philosophy.

Kris grimaced, and leaned down to inject the second dose. Nothing happened.

“I think it takes time.” Kris said, nudging the still breathing orderly after ten minutes. “Like a regular overdose.”

“Unfortunate,” Yong said. “When he dies, you keep your hand.” Kris was tempted to stomp on the guy’s head right then, but that wasn’t sportsmanlike. Yong pulled out his phone, dialing a number. He nodded to Pill Pusher. “Untie him. I want to see the source.”

Kris loosened the ropes around Pill Pusher’s limbs and the orderly scrambled to his feet, rubbing feeling back into his arms and legs and pointedly not looking at his partner on the floor. “Boss wants to see Yixing,” Kris told him, prodding him forward. “Don’t give him a reason to kill you.” 

Pill Pusher lunged across the hall, pushing open the door to Yixing’s room and waving them hurriedly inside. Kris walked quickly. Yong strolled across the hall, as if he was daring someone to spot and challenge him. Probably he was. He carried an axe in the trunk of his car.

Yixing’s room was more opulent than any apartment Kris could afford, even on his generous monthly allowance. All of the furniture was leather and hardwood, although all of the corners were rounded and surfaces smoothed. A massive tv stretched across one wall, a collection of old and new gaming systems scattered beneath it, hundreds of games packed into the bookshelf beside it. A patio window led out to the screened-in balcony overlooking the mountain, and a stack of books lay outside, the light wind ruffling their pages. One-of-a-kind plush toys and collectible action figures were scattered across the floor, a million dollar minefield that Kris tried to pick his way through, wincing every time Yong crushed something irreplaceable underfoot. The boss went straight to the bed, a telltale lump under the scrunched satin bedding giving away Yixing’s position.

Yong tried to peel back the comforter, but Yixing was either awake or the heaviest person in the world, because the bedding didn’t budge. Pill Pusher dashed forward, leaping onto the bed in his haste to be of assistance. He picked up the entire blanket bundle and shook it out, dumping Yixing onto the bed in a towheaded heap. Kris expected the kid to stay still, cowed by his boss’ intimidating scowl. Instead, Yixing shoved Pill Pusher off of the bed in retaliation for the forced de-blanketing and promptly rebundled himself. Kris caught a snicker before it left his lungs. Even though it was hilarious to see Boss utterly ignored like that, he carried an axe in the trunk of his car. The second time Pill Pusher dumped Yixing, Kris joined the fray, trying to hold Yixing down. It was like trying to pin down a yowling, oiled eel with teeth and a viciously hard skull. Kris was forced to put his all into it, sitting on top of the long-limbed boy and pretzelling his arms and legs into a submission hold. He held Yixing still, panting, sweat dripping into his eyes and making his suit stick to him in the most uncomfortable places, as Yong took his time looking into the boy’s eyes, his phone held to his ear. Finally, _finally_ , he straightened and Kris, muscles burning relaxed his hold on Yixing. Yixing slithered away like greased lightning, collecting the blankets again and sequestering himself under the bed. Kris flopped down on top of the bed as Yong spoke something in Korean to the person on the other end of the phone. 

“Write down this address,” Yong said, switching back to Cantonese, and Kris fished a pen out of his jacket to write down a U.S. address on his palm.

“Take the kid to that address,” Yong instructed. “All the papers you’ll need to travel will be in the usual locker at the airport by sunset. Don’t miss your flight and don’t make any noise abroad.”

Kris’ jaw dropped open. “Y-you want me to go? Here?” He shook his palm at his boss. “Where even is this? What is yoo…yoo tah… yew tah…yoot—”

“Figure it out,” Yong said on his way out. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the supply closet.“You get to keep your hand.”


	14. Obligations We Inherit IV

                                          

Director Choi ended his call with a prolonged, lung-emptying sigh, his cell phone clattering to the table as he tossed it aside. Sarai looked up at the sound, her fingers stilling on the keyboard.

“An update on the Hong Kong situation?” she asked, her voice hushed.

At his end of the conference room table, Jongdae kept his eyes glued to his own laptop, scrolling occasionally, trying to appear absorbed in his work. Timestamped CCTV footage of the Kyungsoo debacle scrolled past, neglected, as he strained to hear their quiet conversation. 

“It’s been handled,” the director murmured, and Sarai bowed her head in relief. “The deaths were written off as drug overdoses, and the source will be delivered shortly.”

“Without a proper quarantine team?!” Sarai’s head snapped up, her voice rising. “What about protective equipment? Are they flying _coach_?” 

Jongdae pretended to look up in surprise, sensing an opportunity. “Is there another vivus case?” he asked innocently, and the director’s lips thinned in annoyance at being overheard.

“It’s already been taken care of.” 

“By who?” Jongdae pressed, not about to let him off of the hook that easily. “Didn’t you all lose your teams yesterday going after Kyungsoo and the arsonist?” 

The director leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he decided what morsels of information to dole out. “We have a few assets in place in southern China—”

“Guardians. Members of your intel network,” Jongdae clarified. Choi pursed his lips, but nodded before continuing.

“There had been large number of suspicious deaths in the Hong Kong area, but we didn’t recognize it as a vivus outbreak until very recently. Fortunately, one of our assets, a former analyst, recognized the signs of infection and alerted the other guardians in the area. As we are _shorthanded_ ,” Choi growled, “ we couldn’t send a team to assist, but a local organization was able to track and locate the patient zero. One of their men is transporting the patient here as we speak.”

“Seems risky,” Jongdae said, echoing Sarai’s earlier concerns. 

“We should redirect them to the Daegu facility,” the medic suggested. “It’s closer, and we could ask a militia team to act as backup in case anything goes wrong.”

“The patient needs to come here,” Choi stressed the last word through his teeth, glowering daggers at Sarai. “The Daegu facility is not _equipped_ ,” he enunciated again, “to accommodate his special needs.”

“Ah, of course.” Sarai’s eyes widened as the director’s unspoken message registered. Jongdae raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Preexisting conditions makes treatment more complicated,” she lied smoothly, “so the patient needs to come here, where our researchers can study his case directly.”

Jondae looked between the two flaming-pants conspirators. “I see.” 

Choi harrumphed, looking away, and Jongdae let the point drop. Pushing too hard might arouse suspicion, and his knowledge of their secret medical dungeon and Nazi-era experiments was a card he wasn’t ready to play just yet. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t squeeze a little more information out of them.

“So, when does the new patient get here?” Jongdae bared his teeth in a grin. “I’m curious to see your procedures.” He couldn’t resist needling them a tiny bit more, so he added, “I meant to be there for Minseok’s arrival, but I must have misread the intake schedule.” Sarai tensed in her seat. _Gauntlet thrown._

Choi’s eye’s tightened around the edges, the only sign of his unease. “The patient and his escort should be arriving at 21:00 tomorrow night. To someone without a medical background, our intake process would probably seem much like a basic physical.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “ You’re welcome to observe, but you’ll probably be occupied with tasks more suited to your skill set.” _Challenge accepted._

A throaty yawn echoed into the loaded silence, and a set of long-fingered, delicate hands stretched above the table. Baekhyun dragged himself into a sitting position, squinting, the chair’s leather seam imprinted on his cheek, his hair smushed flat on one side of his head. Jongdae’s mouth dropped open, all mind-games with the director forgotten as the kid peeled his eyes open. Baekhyun had practically fled at the end of the early morning meeting, squirming past several militiamen in his haste to escape the boredom, glitter smearing their uniforms as a dismaying souvenir of his passage. Only a handful of people had come and gone from the room throughout the rest of the day, and Jongdae would’ve bet a kidney that Baekhyun hadn’t been one of them. Yet he’d apparently been sleeping here for hours, completely unnoticed.

“Why aren’t you in your room?” Sarai demanded, rising out of her seat. She tapped her watch, pointedly. “You’re off-schedule!” Jongdae cocked his head as he noted her reaction. Apparently, Baekhyun “off-schedule” was cause for concern, but appearing in unexpected places was just a matter of course.

Baekhyun shook his head pityingly as he finger-combed his flattened hair back into shape. “ _Ahjumma._ ” The word dripped with adolescent disdain, and Sarai bristled at his tone. “I make my own schedule.”

Director Choi hissed sharply. “Do as she says. Go to your room.”

Baekhyun’s face scrunched into a pout. “Fine. _Harabeoji._ ” He knocked over his chair as he stood, giving it another peevish kick for good measure as he stalked out. All in all, one of the finest performances of teenage immaturity Jongdae had ever witnessed. Sarai and the director shook their heads at each other in commiseration, and neither of them questioned how he’d gotten there in the first place.


	15. Trust I Betrayed II

                                          

His door unlocked with a chirp, and Joonmyeon woke instantly, vaulting out of bed to wedge himself into a corner. _It’s night, they never come at night, Han never comes at night._ Every heartbeat hammered against his ribcage, forcing the breath from his lungs as he trembled, eyes straining against the darkness, the sliver of light growing wider and wider. 

Baekhyun winked into view, stray motes of light reflecting in his eyes, round with apology. “Hyung! It’s me.”

Relief brought Joonmyeon to his knees. “Bloody hell,” he wheezed as he clutched his chest, trying to ease the throbbing there, trying to to breathe normally again.

Baekhyun leaned over him, holding out a bottle. “Hydrate, hyung. We’ve only got fifteen minutes.”

Joonmyeon grunted in confusion as he drained the bottle, every gulp sending a tingling rush through his veins.

Baekhyun took a breath. “Phoenix wiped out the quarantine teams the old man sent so the militia emptied this whole place to send their own teams. The gunhuggers are gone and there’s an intake tonight _right now_. The van just entered the tunnel.”

Joonmyeon burped, processing the torrent. “It takes fifteen minutes to drive through the mountain-”

“-just enough time for you to get there and take that car,” Baekhyun continued, hauling Joonmyeon to his feet, “if we go right now. Get the card.”

Joonmyeon dived on the bed and ripped the pillow apart, the blue striped keycard tumbling from the shredded fabric. The gatekey firmly tucked in his waistband, he stepped outside of his room - his cell- for the first time in months, no drugs fogging his mind, no straps holding him down. The air was just the right amount of humid, the tiles smooth against his bare feet, the anklet chilly against his leg. No alarms screamed, no white-coated psychopaths came running. The only thing between him and freedom was four floors and a ticking watch.

“Go!” Baekhyun vanished in a blink of an eye, and Joonmyeon went, following the slight shimmer in the air. He sprinted full tilt down the corridor, skidding to a stop in front of a unmarked door when Baekhyun’s disembodied voice hissed, “Here!”

Joonmyeon danced with anxiety as Baekhyun worked, breathing easier when the deadbolt clicked open. He tugged the heavy door open and stepped inside the dark, frigid room, opening his eyes wide to let them adjust to the paltry light filtering in from the corridor. The first thing he spotted was feet, bare like his own, scrabbling against the floor, and he realized the occupant was trying to crawl away from him. His upper body was covered with ugly scorch marks, a few glistening with burn gel, most fresh and untreated. His arms were bound to his sides, and a hood was pulled over his head. Joonmyeon dropped into a crouch and gingerly pinched the top of the hood, tugging it free to reveal a towheaded young man, his terrified eyes gleaming whitely in the darkness.

“Minseok?” When the young man tensed even further, Joonmyeon held up his hands, letting the hood fall to the ground. He knew what it was like to be this afraid, this alone, so he said the words he’d wished he’d heard himself so long ago. “I’m here to get you out. You need to trust me, and we need to move fast.”

Minseok broke down in sobs instantly, scooting closer to Joonmyeon, who immediately set to to work undoing the restraints. Baekhyun stayed invisible, but whispered “Hurry!” into his ear as Joonmyeon gripped Minseok under the armpits, lifting him to his feet. The shorter man wavered dangerously once he was standing, so Joonmyeon kept one arm around his waist, his fingers cringing away when ever he felt them brush against a ragged burn. 

“As fast as you can,” he told him, and started moving, trusting that Minseok was desperate enough to keep up, despite his injuries. He kept up the brisk pace, following Baekhyun’s shimmer as he guided them up a stairwell. Minseok limped doggedly, his face twisted into a mask of pain and concentration as he fought to stay upright. His exhaustion was evident, though, as he sagged against Joonmyeon at each landing, and each time it took longer and longer for him to move again. Most unnerving was that, instead of becoming warmer with exertion, Minseok was actually growing colder under Joonmyeon’s touch. They reached the top of the stairwell, a hidden door popping out from the wall. A light push in the small of his back prodded Joonmyeon toward an elevator, and he glanced down at his charge as they ascended, making sure he hadn’t become a corpse. A chillingly familiar voice announced that they had reached Level 1, and the doors slid open to reveal the site of countless nightmares. The reek of fresh disinfectant stung his throat, as his eyes took in the gurney, outfitted with a new layer of plastic, and the tools, shiny and chrome, laid out for their next subject. Joonmyeon practically dragged Minseok across the intake room in his haste to escape, almost to the door when Baekhyun appeared out of thin air in front of them. Joonmyeon’s heart grabbed hold of his larynx, and he barely managed to clap a hand over Minseok’s mouth to smother his scream of shock. 

“Sorry!” Baekhyun whispered loudly, hopping from one foot to the other with excitement. “This is the last door! Past that is the parking lo-”

A polo-shirted guard walked in, two people trailing him— a tall man in a tailored suit, a shorter boy in thin white sweats. Everyone froze and locked eyes, and howling eternity passed in a split second. The guard reacted first, raising his hand to his earpiece, inhaling air to shout the alarm. Joonmyeon was faster. He opened his hands and _pulled_ , desiccating the air before the guard’s taser cleared the holster, the moisture condensing into a tight ball in his palm. Minseok crumpled to the ground as Joonmyeon threw, and the ball blasted the guard across the face, slamming his head against the door frame. The guard staggered, clutching his throat as the water forced its way up his nose. His face purpled as he spluttered, water staining his shirt with each foamy cough. With a gutteral noise, his eyes rolled back in his head and he sprawled on the ground, little rivulets leaking from his face as Joonmyeon called the water back. The ball of moisture spun slowly, re-condensing, as he turned to face the two others.

The young one in white was on his knees, reaching toward the fallen guard, but Baekhyun caught his hand before he could touch. The tall one in the suit stared at the glossy orb expanding between Joonmyeon’s fingers, and he slowly raised his hands above his head.

“I’m not paid enough,” he said simply. 

Joonmyeon floated the orb towards the suited man, letting it spin menacingly next to his head. “You drove?” he asked.The man leaned away as his hairstyle began to dissolve and pointed back the way they had come, his hands still high above his head. 

“Lead on,” Joonmyeon ordered. The suited man reached down slowly, blindly trying to capture the shirt hem of his companion while keeping an eye on the floating orb as it followed his every move. When he couldn’t find him, he looked down, then snatched his hand away, stumbling backward hastily.

Joonmyeon followed his gaze, finding Baekhyun kneeling, facing the white-clad young man, one hand on his cheek.

“Baek?” Joonmyeon called out, his heart dropping. 

Baekhyun turned towards him, a tiny smile quirking his lips, that strange witchlight glowing in his eyes. “Healer,” Baekhyun said softly. Then the light in his eyes died, and he folded bonelessly.

“No!” The sphere of water went splashy, dripping itself onto the floor as Joonmyeon lunged toward his friend, tripping over Minseok’s body. Familiar panic bubbled up in his gut as he shook Baekhyun’s shoulder, calling his name, trying to wake him even though he knew it was futile. The suit grabbed hold of the healer’s shirt and dragged him out, despite his struggle to stay. Joonmyeon looked over at Minseok, lying in a heap, the blackened, bloody wounds crisscrossing his body even worse in the bright lights of the intake room. The furious scuffle outside grew fainter, his only chance to escape this place getting further away with each second. 

He couldn’t carry them both. 

Joonmyeon ran a hand across Baekhyun’s face, gently brushing his hair out of his eyes. His weird little savior, who wore pajamas meant for little girls, had never tasted peanut butter, and loved insulting nicknames. A tear dripped against Baekhyun’s eyelid, beading at the wing of his eyeliner, Joonmyeon let out a laugh that was mostly a sob as he wiped it away with his thumb, careful not to smudge. Above his head, the orb firmed up, reabsorbing its lost size. Keeping his concentration on his creation, Joonmyeon turned to Minseok and scooped him into his arms. Staggering a little, he stood and left his friend behind. 

Joonmyeon caught up with the suit at the door to the underground parking lot, the tall man vainly trying to peel his companion’s fingers from the door. When he spotted the orb of water approaching, he relinquished the struggle with a disgusted sigh and raised his hands in surrender. The young healer’s face lit up at orb’s approach, and he tried to catch it, chasing it in circles as Joonmyeon herded them out. Approaching voices echoed into the air, their conversation amplified by the curve in the corridor, and Joonmyeon hurried them on, trying not to keep the sudden tension from his face. 

The suit gestured toward a large silver SUV sitting near the entrance, not even properly parked but blocking two other cars, the engine popping and crackling from use. “There it is,” he said helpfully, dropping the car keys on the ground before taking a giant step away from the orb. His companion, who had been inches away from touching the orb, tottered backwards with a low cry of disappointment, pulled by the suit’s tight grip on his shirt.

“You’re driving,” Joonmyeon told him, jerking his head toward the car, the orb mirroring his motion. He risked a glance backward as the suit picked up the keys, muttering under his breath in Cantonese. The healer opened the car’s rear door, clambering inside to help Joonmyeon arrange Minseok’s cool, limp body gently on the back seat.

The door to the parking lot slammed open, and Joonmyeon’s head banged against the car ceiling as he leaped out to face the danger. Sarai charged into the lot, fire in her eyes and a Glock raised in one hand. She pointed it right at Joonmyeon, finger tight on the trigger. His mouth went dry, the barrel of the gun sucking up his vision. She was too far away and holding that gun far too comfortably. Before his orb could reach her she would cripple him, or worse. A second quarantine agent burst through the parking lot door, his weapon raised, running to Sarai’s aid. She swung the gun to point at the suit, trusting her partner to keep Joonmyeon in his sights.

He drop-kicked her from behind.

The woman hit the cement face first, limbs askew as her body skidded into a post.

There was a distant splash in the background as Joonmyeon’s orb spun itself out of existence, his concentration shot.

The second agent jogged up to him, breathing heavily, and slapped something to his chest, pushing him backwards towards the car.

“The rest are right behind me,” the agent said, as Joonmyeon let himself be stuffed into the passenger seat, the suit swearing a blue streak as he hastily took the wheel. 

“Hey, you,” the agent caught the suit’s attention, and held up his Glock. “These were for you,” he jabbed his chin towards Joonmyeon, “not him. He’s valuable. You’re not. So drive fast.”

The engine revved in response, tires screeching as they peeled away. Joonmyeon fished the gatekey from his waistband and held it beside the rearview mirror as they neared the barred entrance to the tunnel. As the gate began rolling open with a mechanized groan, Joonmyeon turned to look back, but the agent was gone. The car’s headlights flashed on as they roared into the mountain tunnel without slowing down, the suit expertly handling the winding curves, even in the dark. Joonmyeon kept looking back, kept checking for headlights in the rearview, kept expecting a booby trap, kept waiting for something to go wrong. His adrenaline was still firing on all cylinders as they shot free of the tunnel, swerving onto the main highway and out into the desert night.

For the first time in seven months, Joonmyeon saw the sky. He fell back against his seat, wind from the open window battering the tears from his eyes as he took in the size of the world, so vast and quiet. He looked down at his hands, clutched tightly around the small object the agent had pressed into his chest. A phone.


	16. That Stranger You Pity II

                                          

The highway wound through the mountain after identical mountain, the mile markers the only sign that they weren’t traveling in and endless circles. Kris glanced sideways as he drove, trying to get a feel for his carjacker. He was shorter than him, as most everyone was, and the loose fitting t-shirt and pants he wore made him seem young and vulnerable. He looked Asian, but the six words he’d heard him speak marked him as a Brit, and a moneyed one at that. If they’d met in Hong Kong, Kris would’ve followed him back to his downtown hotel, knocked him over the head, and sold him back to his old-money family for an amount that wouldn’t fit on a check. But the miniature, posh Brit had just drowned a man in midair with sorcery, so instead of whipping out his knives and skinning his carjacker alive, Kris was obediently driving down a dark highway to nowhere and following the speed limit.

“What’s your name?” The Brit turned to look at him. “I feel like I should know your name.”

Kris’ grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he swallowed thickly. This could be a trap. Supernatural creatures could use your name to control you. “Yifan,” he said after a moment. Just in case the demon could sense lies, he gave him his real name, but not the name he actually used. A loophole, he hoped.

“I’m Joonmyeon,” the Brit told him. “Or Joon, if you like. Some say my name is quite difficult.” He looked over his shoulder to the backseat. “What about your young friend?”

“Yixing,” Kris answered without hesitation. The fruitcake’s soul wasn’t his concern. “And he’s not my friend.” Granted, Yixing was the only person who had ever cuddled Kris for fifteen hours, but that was only because the flight attendants had adopted Yixing as one of their own before they even left the runway, and they would have noticed if he died. Mr. Yong had left very specific instructions about not attracting attention on this trip and which vital body parts would be forfeited if he failed. So, Yixing had been allowed to octopus his way into Kris’ lap for the entire trip, but unwanted, prolonged physical contact did not make them ‘friends.’

“So you’re just a courier,” Joonmyeon murmured, nodding to himself. “I wasn’t sure why Sarai wanted to kill you, but you must have seen too much.” Kris rolled his eyes. A simple “Say nothing” would’ve been much more polite than a gun to the forehead. He felt eyes on him and realized Joonmyeon was sizing him up. 

“That’s a nice suit for a courier.”

Kris couldn’t figure out if that was a compliment, veiled barb, or if Joonmyeon wanted his suit, so he went with “Mmhmm.”

“Who do you work for?” 

Damn. The demon had asked him a direct question, and Kris still wasn’t sure if he could risk lying. “Mr. Yong,” he said, figuring vague truth was good enough.

“Did Mr. Yong tell you where you were going? Or what would happen to Yixing when you got there?” Joonmyeon was facing him now, and there was a hard edge to his voice. Kris was suddenly quite glad that Yong had been so close-lipped about this whole job. 

“He gave me an address. That’s it.” Joonmyeon relaxed back into his seat, lapsing into silence, apparently satisfied with the truthfulness of his answers.

Kris wasn’t blind. He’d seen the faint scars on Joonmyeon’s wrists when he was magically suffocating the guard, and the burns on his friend were worse than anything he’d ever inflicted. He knew the hospital bed in that room had been all dressed up especially for Yixing. Despite his rather brutal choice of profession, Kris wasn’t completely heartless. He would have left Yixing there if nothing had happened, but, all things considered, he was glad he hadn’t had to. The clingy kid was a a few cymbals short of a drumset, and he had grade A tar running through his veins, but that didn’t mean he should be treated like a science experiment. He looked into his mirror, watching Yixing sleep with his head thrown back, mouth slightly open. Kris had never been able to sleep around other people, his childhood had had too many knives in the dark.

The front seat lit up briefly as Joonmyeon turned on the phone he’d been holding. It buzzed and meeped for a few seconds as it updated all of the calls and texts it had missed, and Joonmyeon scrolled through the long list of notifications. “All from the same person,” he muttered, then swiping them all aside to access the lock screen. It took him less than five minutes to guess the phone’s combination, and Kris told himself he wasn’t impressed. 

Joonmyeon went through the phone’s folders, tabbing through the pictures so fast Kris was convinced he wasn’t actually looking at them, but just uploading them to some kind of cyborg cortex to analyze later. The Brit made a small sound of dismay as he came across something, and a video began playing. The voices in the recording were tinny and the volume was too low for Kris to make out what they were saying, but Joonmyeon’s hands were shaking as he watched. Then the screaming started.

“Stop the car.” Kris screeched to a halt in the middle of the highway and Joonmyeon launched himself out of his seat, falling to his knees in the slow lane, retching. Kris reached across the seat and slammed the door closed, mashing his foot to the ground as he sped away from the demon in human skin. He checked his mirrors to make sure the creature wasn’t following them and nearly swerved into the guardrail when he caught Yixing’s basilisk stare from the backseat. 

“Go back for him.” Yixing’s voice was surprisingly clear and steady.

“You talk?!” Kris was a bit miffed that he’d spent all night wrapped around him like a starfish but hadn’t bothered to say a word. 

“You can’t leave him. They’ll find him.” Yixing turned in his seat, like he could see Joonmyeon in the distance, but Kris was going 90 mph. There was nothing in the rearview but dust.

“He can take care of himself.” As long as the sun didn’t rise and turn him into stone.

“I’m going back for him,” Yixing announced, and opened his door. Kris jammed his foot onto the brake, whiplash snapping his head forward and tossing Yixing around the back seat. The basket case, apparently unfazed by his near death experience, tumbled out of the car, rolled to his feet, and began jogging back the way they had come. 

“Hey, nutjob! That’s miles back!” Kris yelled out of his window, but Yixing didn’t even acknowledge him. Kris growled as he jumped out, chasing after him. He caught up with the kid and grabbed his arm, but Yixing whirled and sank his teeth into Kris’ hand. Kris yelled as he tried to pry his hand free, his cries echoing into the night as he felt enamel scrape against bone. He jerked his hand free and stared at Yixing in horror, as the kid licked the blood from his teeth, shark-like, before turning and running off into the night. Kris let him go, wringing his throbbing hand. He hurried back to the car, anxious to see how bad the damage was. He wondered if humans could have rabies.

Kris reached out to close Yixing’s door, then caught sight of Joonmyeon’s friend, crumpled into the floor of the back seat. He stared at him for a moment, then dragged him out of the car by his ankles, stopping short of letting his head hit the ground. He contemplated leaving him in the middle of the road, but, on a night this dark, that was basically murder. He awkwardly hoisted the small person over his shoulder, wincing whenever he had to use his mangled hand, and carried him to the shoulder of the highway, where Joonmyeon would be sure to find him. Eventually. 

Back in the driver’s seat, he held up his hand to the ceiling light. The meat between his thumb and forefinger was clearly imprinted with each of Yixing’s sharp, crazy teeth, blood welling up in the deep holes. He would need stitches, and he started the car, already searching for the closest hospital. Before he could set foot to pedal, the dashboard lit up with an incoming call. ‘Pick Up’ the caller ID read, and Kris jabbed the answer tab by the steering wheel.

“Mr. Yong!” Kris couldn’t keep the trepidation out of his voice. This job had gone so far sideways, he would probably have to live as a deaf, mute, limbless eunuch when he went back to Hong Kong.

“Hm,” Yong grunted. “You picked up on the first ring.”

“Always, sir,” Kris grimaced as pain lanced through his hand, and he raised it to his face, morbidly fascinated by sight of his blood vessels rebuilding themselves like a fast-forwarded knitting demo.

“I was led to believe you’d been captured.”

Kris peeled the new scab away, and there wasn’t even a scar underneath. He moved his thumb back and forth experimentally. “I escaped, sir.”

“Good for you.”

“They’re not human,” Kris whispered, rubbing his fingers over the healed area. “It’s the only explanation.”

“They?” Yong asked, a little eagerness entering his voice. “Others like Yixing?”

“Worse.” Kris gripped the sides of the dashboard. “I saw one conjure water from nothing, and then drown a man with it. I barely got away.”

“Oh,” Yong said, disappointment weighting the syllable. “But you still have Yixing, yes?”

Kris thought about this. “Yes.”

Then he got a request for a video chat, and his forehead thudded against the steering wheel. He let the request ring a few more times, then tapped to accept. Yong’s narrowed eyes looked up at him from the dashboard, a little sweat beading his brow.

“That wasn’t the first ring, Kris.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Show me Yixing.”

“…Sorry, sir.”

There was a high-pitched rasping sound in the background, and Yong dabbed his forehead with his sleeve, a whetstone held in one hand. A row of scythes hung from a pegboard behind him, ordered by size and curvature. “What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“I need to pick him up.” Kris had never felt cleverer as he lied through his teeth, all the blood in his body rushing to his brain to fuel his awesome creative prowess. “I left him at the hotel while I went for gas.”

“Yixing’s life is your life, Kris,” Yong said, the rasping sound starting up again. “Don’t leave him alone for long.”

“I’ll go back right after this call.” Kris could feel years of his life slipping away the longer this conversation went on.

“Stay out of sight for a while,” Yong went on. “I sent Yixing to Kangshin to repay an old favor, but he seems to be have trouble keeping track of his belongings. ”

“It’s like they grow legs and run away,” Kris quipped, clearly delusional from the stress of this phone call. He stretched his lips over his teeth in what he hoped looked like an amused smile as Yong chuckled.

“It would be a shame to let our rare jewel ‘grow legs and run away,’” Yong said, resting his chin on his newly sharpened axe. “I’ll wire some additional funds to your account, so take good care of him.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Kris.”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you can’t find him in fifteen minutes, I’m sending the Butcher to cut your throat.” The call ended with a beep, and Kris sat, stunned, for three seconds. Then he threw the car into drive and roared back down the highway, tires smoking.

He nearly ran Yixing over. Fortunately, Yixing only bounced just a little off of his hood before the car stopped fully. Kris leaped out and raced around to the front of the car to snap a selfie with Yixing’s face in it, sending it off to Yong with four minutes to spare, hoping that yellow stripes in the background wouldn’t tip him off.

A text buzzed back almost immediately. From Butcher: ‘Throat safe. : ( Had dibs on your loft.’

Kris couldn’t even text back a snide reply because his thumbs were suddenly four times larger than they used to be and all of his bones were gelatin. He sat down heavily in the middle of the highway, and Yixing opened his eyes.

“Ow.”

Kris did not apologize. Payback for his hand.

“You’re in trouble,” Yixing told him as he sat up, rubbing his shoulder.

Kris lifted his phone with his weak, floppy wrists. “Boss says I’m good.” Then he felt something cool and wet snake around his neck, and slither up the side of his face. He passed out.

When he came to, Yixing was kneeling over him, pinching his cheek, and Joonmyeon was scowling above him, the spinning ball of doom hovering beside him.

“Where’s Minseok?” he gritted. Kris raised a hand carefully, pointing back down the road. “Get up and drive.”


	17. Trust I Betrayed III

                                          

Joonmyeon kept a watchful eye on “Yifan” as the skittish courier sped down the highway, his grip white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his sweat fueling the watery noose swirling lazily around his neck. The noose had barely enough liquid to soak the collar of his designer suit, but if the empty threat kept him from turning on Joonmyeon and abandoning him on the highway again, so be it. The courier’s young friend, Yixing, radiated unhappiness from the backseat as he searched the passing roadside for signs of Minseok. Joonmyeon wasn’t sure why he was so invested in helping them at Yifan’s expense, but questioning his good fortune could wait until they were away from danger and out of Choi’s reach.

After a few tense miles, Yifan whipped the car to the side of the road, brakes squealing. He jumped out before Joonmyeon could react, sprinting toward the brush on the highway shoulder, shouting something as he pointed. Joonmyeon dashed after him, overtaking him in moments and plunging into the shrubby sea. He barely noticed Yifan sneaking away as he searched through the high weeds, his eyes straining for detail against the moonless dark. He frantically swept his hands around, feeling for a body. A pained yelp echoed behind him, then the car’s high beams snapped on. Joonmyeon had to shield his dark-adapted eyes from the sudden onslaught, his vision hazing purple and green from the rapid adjustment as he squinted into the weeds, turning slowly. Finally, a glimpse of gray fabric among the dry stalks snagged his attention.

“Minseok!” Joonmyeon crashed his way to the smaller man’s side, sinking to his knees. He hesitated before lifting him-- Minseok was deathly pale and cold to the touch, seemingly lifeless. He held his breath as he felt for a pulse, and let out a sigh of relief when he could feel Minseok’s heartbeat, slow but steady under his fingertips. He hugged him close, the dry brush crackling underfoot as he struggled to his feet and made his way back to the car.

As Joonmyeon approached, the SUV’s rear hatch popped open with a smooth whirr. The backseat had been folded down, and Yifan’s suit jacket was spread neatly in the space. Yifan himself was sitting on the ground against the front tires, disheveled and muttering to himself, cradling one hand. Yixing clambered inside the trunk to help Joonmyeon lay Minseok on top of the makeshift blanket. He bit his lip as Joonmyeon held his ear to Minseok’s nose. 

“What’s wrong?” Yixing asked, the worry creeping into his gaze as Joonmyeon frowned.

“I don’t know,” Joonmyeon admitted.The breaths he felt were too faint and too far apart. He sat up and began kneading Minseok’s forearm gently, as if he could massage the life back into him. “It could be shock, but… I’m not a doctor.” Doctors were the ones who’d done this to him.

“Let’s call the police.” Yifan joined them at the back of the car, but he kept staring at his hand strangely. He moved his fingers one by one as if he was testing them to see if they still worked. “Tell them there was a car accident, and they’ll bring paramedics.” 

It was a good idea.

Except Joonmyeon knew the police wouldn’t come. Director Choi’s quarantine teams would show up instead, maybe dressed as police, maybe masquerading as helpful motorists just passing by. Or perhaps real help would come, but they’d find themselves in an emergency room staffed by Choi’s spies. Memory flickered— purple scrubs, a smiling face looking down at him— and Joonmyeon recoiled from the thought, pushing it far away, walling it up in the corner of his mind. “No calls,” he decided firmly. Trusting anyone would be too risky. “We’re on our own.”

Yixing started massaging Minseok’s other arm, copying Joonmyeon’s motions. Healer. Baekhyun had gifted that word to Yixing just before he collapsed. Just like the word he’d whispered to Joonmyeon when they’d first met so many months ago. 

“C-Can you…” When Yixing looked up, Joonmyeon paused, unsure of how his request would sound. Did Yixing even know what he was capable of? “Can you help him?”

The younger boy looked down at Minseok’s still form, lips pursing as he studied the burns. “I think so,” he said. “But I need a knife.” He locked eyes with Joonmyeon, and an unspoken understanding passed between them. As one, they turned to Yifan, who took an wary step away from the car, tucking his hands protectively behind his back.

“I’m not giving Jaws over there a knife!” he protested, but he glanced instinctively towards a nondescript roll of leather tucked unobtrusively into the wheel well. Yifan lunged for it first, but Joonmyeon was closer, snagging it as Yifan’s hands slammed down on empty carpet. Joonmyeon deftly undid the tie holding the roll closed, and it tumbled open to reveal a startlingly large collection of bladed weapons, arranged neatly by size. Yifan made another grab for it, and with a flick of his wrist, Joonmyeon condensed a marble of nighttime dew. The tall man froze, blinking, as the warning shot splashed against his face, a few droplets dripping from the tip of his nose. He straightened, warily, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Joonmyeon held out the roll to Yixing, who rubbed his fingers together as he looked for the perfect choice.

“This is going to be a headline tomorrow,” Yifan muttered as Yixing slid a thin, wickedly sharp flechette from its loop. “’Idiot stabbed to death by escaped Chinese mental patient.’ Details at seven.”

Mental patient!? Joonmyeon snatched the roll away, but Yixing was already rolling up one sleeve, revealing a forearm criss-crossed with the fine lines of faded scars. 

Yifan hissed sharply at the sight, speaking rapidly as his hands reached out in a placating gesture. Joonmyeon couldn’t follow the switch to Cantonese, but Yifan’s panicked “Put the knife down!” was a universal phrase that needed no translation.

Yixing ignored him, the blade flashing across his skin without a hint of hesitation. Joonmyeon caught his wrist before he could hurt himself again, and Yifan caught the falling flechette before it hit the floor, pocketing it. Still leaning awkwardly over Minseok, Joonmyeon hurriedly examined the cut. It was barely more than a papercut, a shallow slice, nothing that could be mistaken for life-threatening. Yifan hovered watchfully over Yixing’s shoulder, but Joonmyeon relaxed and released him, sitting back on his heels, satisfied that he hadn’t just enabled a suicide attempt. 

“What do you do next?” 

Yixing held his arm above one of the wide, barely healed scorch marks on Minseok’s chest, squeezing his fist rhythmically. The drops of blood beading the cut grew larger until they rained down, one by one, onto the wound. The droplets absorbed into the ravaged flesh in moments, and Yixing moved his arm to another burn, giving it the same treatment.

“Will that heal him?” Joonmyeon wondered aloud, at the same time Yifan mused, “Won’t this kill him?”

Joonmyeon’s hand shot out and he grabbed Yixing’s arm again, blood smearing under his fingers as he staunched the wound. 

“It won’t hurt him.” Yixing tried to tug his arm free, but Joonmyeon held it fast.

“What does he mean?” Joonmyeon demanded. “Is your blood dangerous?” His eyes roved anxiously over Minseok’s face, looking for any sign of change. Had he always been that pale?

“Not if I tell it what to do,” Yixing insisted, still trying to twist away. “Andy always refrigerated it. I told him it would forget, but he wanted it to last longer so he could sell more.”

“Who’s Andy?” Joonmyeon asked, confused.

“Drug-dealing orderly,” Yifan said helpfully. “He cut heroin with blood from Jaws—”

“Not my name,” Yixing grumbled.

“With a double dose, he lasted, hm… twelve minutes?” Yifan made a point of checking his watch then nodded toward Minseok. “There’s still time to say your goodbyes.”

“He’s not going to die,” Yixing yelled, his voice echoing into the night. He yanked his arm out of Joonmyeon’s grip and scrubbed it clean with the bottom of his shirt. When he held it out again, the wound was completely healed, the new scar already beginning to fade into the blade-drawn patchwork on his forearm. Joonmyeon touched one finger against the thin lines, a bit awed. “Trust me,” Yixing told him.

Then, the air went to ice. Joonmyeon twitched in surprise, flash-frozen skin tingling with frost, his breath breath puffing white clouds. Thin crystals sparkled in Yixing’s hair and eyelashes as he twisted around, gaping at the miniature ice age in their car. Yifan was similarly rimed with ice, his eyes wide as he stared out into the highway. Joonmyeon followed his gaze, watching a few stray flakes of snow flutter past the open hatch even as the frost coating the inside of the car began to melt, the air returning to its normal temperature. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he looked down just in time to see Minseok opening his eyes..

“You’re alive!” Joonmyeon seized his shoulders, then let go instantly, mindful of the burns. Except they were already gone. The worst of the blackened, oozing gouges in Minseok’s flesh were …refilling… like a hole dug in wet sand, new flesh pushing out the crisped, dead tissue as it knitted into the gaps. Joonmyeon’s hands hovered over the vanishing wounds, the motion bringing the scars on his own wrists into view. If only Yixing could erase memories as easily.

Minseok tensed, startling Joonmyeon out of his thoughts. The young man was fully awake now, his bewildered gaze shifting between them in mounting panic. Joonmyeon realized how creepy they must seem, three complete strangers in the back of a van with a roll of knives, staring in fascination at his naked chest.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” he assured him hurriedly, sliding the knife roll out of view, but skepticism clouded the smaller man’s face. Minseok scooted backward, trying to sit up and escape them at the same time. His features scrunched in anticipation of pain as he moved, followed swiftly by surprise when he felt none. His hand tapped gingerly at his chest, probing the smooth skin there, his brow furrowing.

“I fixed you,” Yixing explained. “You’re welcome.”

Minseok pulled himself into a sitting position, his back against the the driver’s seat, arms crossed protectively over his chest. He was clearly struggling with a whole set of warring impulses, but, to Joonmyeon’s surprise, the emotions flitting across his face settled into something akin to wary acceptance. “T-Thanks?” Minseok said at last, his voice surprisingly light. “I don’t…” he looked around uncertainly, “I don’t really understand, though?”

It was far more coherence than Joonmyeon had expected, given the circumstances. “Do you remember me?” he asked gently. Minseok’s eyes scoured his face, but there was no flash of recognition. He shook his head, and Joonmyeon swallowed his disappointment. “What’s the last thing you do remember?”

A violent tremble racked Minseok’s whole body, and metal groaned in the sudden cold snap as frost webbed against the windows. Yifan scrambled out of the car, backing away, his shoes crunching against the perfect circle of frost surrounding their car.

“Another one,” he muttered, drawing a cross in the air and waving it toward the car. 

“It’s okay,” Joonmyeon soothed, leaning back to give Minseok his space. “You’re safe. I- we- rescued you. That place, those people, we’re running away from them.” Beside him, Yixing nodded vigorously, his teeth chattering a little.

The frost faded from the windows as Minseok blinked at him. “You came to my cell,” he said slowly, a spark of recollection in his eyes. He raised a hand to his head, his forehead wrinkling a little as he sorted through his fuzzy memories. “Did I pass out?”

Yixing opened his mouth to answer, but his response was cut off by a familiar droning rumble. A helicopter. 

Yifan was the first to react, slamming the trunk hatch shut from the outside and bounding around the side of the SUV. He vaulted into the driver’s seat, slamming the car into gear and mashing the gas pedal to the floor with quick, practiced motions, pulling the door shut as they accelerated down the highway. A moment later he snapped off the headlights, but the spedometer kept climbing steadily, approaching takeoff velocity.

“Are you insane?!” Joonmyeon climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat, squinting into the inky void beyond the windshield, but all he could see was the faint lane markers as they flitted by.

“I can’t lose Yixing,” Yifan growled, his full concentration on the dim road. “No moon, so there’s a chance they didn’t see us. Just gotta avoid their lights.” Joonmyeon turned in his seat, craning his neck to see behind them. Yixing noticed his intention and crawled to the rear window to look out.

“I don’t see anything,” he reported. “Maybe they’re gone?”

“They have helicopters?” Minseok asked.

“They have everything,” Joonmyeon confirmed, wringing his hands. “We shouldn’t have stayed still for so long. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You’re in luck,” A glint appeared in Yifan’s eyes as the engine roar deepened, the acceleration pushing them back against their seats. “I’ve never met a tail I couldn’t outrun.”


	18. Obligations We Inherit V

                                          

_Whap!_ Jongdae winced, freezing momentarily in the doorway as the sound of impact on flesh echoed into the subdued silence of the conference room. The guard who’d just been struck climbed slowly to his feet, one hand held against a red imprint blooming across his cheekbone. Jongdae eased inside, the door whispering shut behind him as Director Choi stumped down the line of polo-shirted guards, a club of rolled newspaper gripped tightly in one hand. His cane slammed against the floor with every step, beating out a percussive ode to his ire until he reached the end of the line. He glared up at the barrel-chested man standing there rigidly at attention and tapped the commander’s patch over his chest.

“Worthless,” the director spat, and the man’s jaw muscles bulged. Choi raised his cane to indicate the shame-faced cohort. “Sixteen of your men on duty, hundreds of cameras, electronic locks on every door, and you let my patients just… walk out.” 

“We didn’t-” the guard commander’s words coughed to a halt, cut off by Choi’s swift jab to his solar plexus.

“Sixteen guards on duty,” Choi repeated as the man doubled over, “and only one of you even laid eyes on my patients.” He prodded another guard with his cane. “What’s Wilson’s status?”

“Still unconscious, sir,” she answered immediately. “But the doctors say he’ll live.”

The director nodded, moving on to a round-faced, owlish man. Choi glared at him for a long minute, eye twitching, then batted his head with his newspaper. “What happened to the alarms?” he demanded as the man cringed, his glasses askew from the slap. 

“It wasn’t our fault!”

Choi beat him around the head until he tripped backward over his own feet, falling against his neighbor. “It’s true, sir,” the other guard came to his rescue, holding his colleague upright. “The alarm system triggered properly. We just checked all of the bells on this level— the signal wire was cut.”

The director’s eyebrows drew tight, his scowl darkening even further. “Now you’re claiming there’s a saboteur?”

“There’s no other explanation. We run diagnostics on the system every week. Most of the alarm bells are in heavily trafficked corridors, in full view of our cameras.” The man shifted from one foot to the other, dropping his gaze to the floor, “ It had to be someone with high-level access. The GPS tracking program for the anklets was completely corrupted, too. The chase team has been following a false signal.” 

Jongdae barely had time to feel a prickle of alarm before an iron grip clamped down on his neck from behind. The assailant yanked him off-balance and, before he could react, propelled him face-first into the nearest wall. As the white light cleared from his vision, a dull, throbbing ache spread from his nose, accompanied by a warm wetness leaking back into his sinuses. The nosebleed quickly lost significance when sharp, white-hot pain stabbed into his side as his assaulter twisted his arm up into his back.

“He had something to do with it,” Sarai’s voice announced, her small hands tightening on his wrist as he tried to free himself. “Jongdae blindsided me in the parking lot earlier. If he hadn’t interfered, I could have ended this.” Jongdae’s shoulder was screaming in distress from its unnatural position, tingling bursts of electricity shooting down his arm, but Sarai’s grip was unbreakable. He wished he’d hit her harder.

“Let him go,” the director admonished, waving off her claim impatiently. “I’ve had him under constant surveillance since he arrived. It’s not him.”

“How are you so sure?” Sarai wrenched his arm another few centimeters, and Jongdae bit back a groan as he rose onto his tiptoes. “He could be working with a partner! You recruit him out of the blue and less than week later Phoenix wipes out our teams and our patients suddenly stage a jailbreak? Connect the dots!” 

Jongdae wished that his actions had actually been part of some intricate, well-planned scheme, but knocking Sarai out had been a spur of the moment decision. She’d had a clear goal, and after holding back these past few days, he’d been overcome with the need to screw her over somehow. Saving someone’s life in the process was just icing. However, like all of his unplanned life choices,while immensely cathartic, that path had quickly taken a downhill turn. 

“You’re going to dislocate his arm, Sarai.” Director Choi’s voice took on a warning sharpness. “Release him. Now.”

Sarai released him with a shove, and Jongdae stumbled away from her, clutching his strained shoulder. The analyst/medic-cum-ninja eyed him as he backed away, her nostrils flaring in frustrated anger. An ugly bruise purpled the left side of the woman’s face, and cement dust flecked the knit of her sweater. Jongdae felt only the slightest twinge of remorse for ruining her sweater as he rotated his tweaked shoulder, trying to dispel the tingling numbness in his fingertips.

Choi turned back to the line of guards, and they hastily snapped back to attention. “Which one of you was responsible for monitoring Mr. Kim’s movements?” The line stepped back as one, leaving a short, stocky man standing alone, and he shot a look of betrayal at his colleagues. “The rest of you can go,” Choi said curtly, dismissing the others. “I’ll decide which of you to fire later.”

The disgraced sentinels filed out, shoulders slumped, none of them meeting the panicked eyes of their singled-out comrade. The door swung shut behind the last of them, and Choi planted his finger in the man’s chest, switching to Korean.

“Song, right?You’re NIS, aren’t you? Civil servant, not a contractor?”

Song’s adam’s apple bobbed sharply. “Grade 7.”

“You were recommended for this post,” Choi circled him like a lion. “’Exemplary at his job’ your section chief said. So?”

A sheen of sweat glowed on the luckless guard’s balding head, his collar wilting under Choi’s predatory regard. “S-so?”

“So, did you do your job correctly or not?”

“I-I” Song glanced at Jongdae, the desperation of a drowning man in his eyes,but Jongdae merely shrugged at him. If he was about to be thrown under the bus, at least he’d have company. “There was-was one time…”

The man spluttered as Choi’s fist flew up. “You lost track of your surveillance target and didn’t report it?!”

“I thought…” Song glanced miserably at the door, then clasped his hands, shoulders hunched in anticipation of a newspaper flogging. “I lost him on Level 3. I looked back through every camera feed, but it was like he vanished. It was hours before I found him again. ”

Sarai’s head swiveled, owl-like, her knowing gaze skewering Jongdae where he stood. His shoulder throbbed anew as she mimed snapping him in half.

“You checked the patient rooms?” Choi continued the interrogation.

“He did enter one of the rooms on L3,” the guard admitted, “but he didn’t speak to the patient. I thought he might have entered one of the restricted areas that Dr. Han monitors.”

“He doesn’t have clearance,” Sarai said, still glaring daggers at Jongdae. 

“I thought Dr. Han would…” Song fumbled for an excuse, “If he wasn’t supposed to be there…” 

“So you failed completely at your only job,” Choi finished for him, and the guard shriveled. “I appreciate your honesty.” He turned his back on him. “Pack your things. You’ll be reassigned shortly to a position better suited to your lack of useful skills.”

As the guard fled from the room, Choi’s narrowed eyes shifted to Jongdae. “So you found Level 4. What did you see?” 

Jongdae considered lying, but it would be pointless. It was time to lay his cards on the table and see what kind of game they were actually playing. “I saw what you did to Minseok. And I saw what he could do.”

Choi nodded thoughtfully, tapping his leg with his paper club. “Is that why you attacked Sarai?”

“She was pointing her weapon at an unarmed man,” Jongdae said truthfully. “It was instinct.” And just a tiny bit of payback for the helpless.

“You could have _said something_ ,” Sarai hissed. “Instead, you let three carriers for a highly contagious, mind-altering disease back into the general population!”

“They weren’t in the patient records.” Jongdae replied and tapped his temple. “I never forget a face.” Technically true. He’d memorized the details of all of the vivus cases flagged within the last month, but a suspicious three had no pictures and blacked-out names. 

“We’re a _quarantine_ facility,” Sarai’s words were all teeth, “We have procedures. If they aren’t staff, you should’ve assumed they were patients—”

“They seemed a lot more like prisoners than patients,” Jongdae shot back. “Explain how blowtorching someone is a way to cure disease, Nurse Frankenstein.”

Sarai started toward him again, her fingers clawed, but Director Choi stepped between them, one hand upraised.

“This won’t solve anything.” He turned to Sarai. “You _wanted_ more people to know about the outliers so we wouldn’t be misunderstood like this,”he reminded her. “You got your wish.”

“I wanted to tell our research team, not the whole world!” Sarai jabbed a finger at Jongdae. “For all we know, he’s the one who’s been leaking intel to Phoenix!”

_A leak?_ Jongdae’s ears lifted curiously. He’d been trailing a certain glittery someone all day, hoping to catch him doing something sneaky, only to find him sprawled out in the intake room next to a half-drowned guard. There was a vanishingly small chance that Baekhyun wasn’t the saboteur, and it didn’t take a great leap of logic to assume he was also the whistling hole in their organization. Yet, Sarai and Choi treated his comings and goings with such indifference, they couldn’t possibly suspect him.

“We both know Jongdae’s not the informant. Calm down.” Choi gave Sarai’s arm a fatherly swat, then rapped Jongdae’s shin with his cane. “Apologize to Sarai,” he ordered. “She was doing her job, and you interfered.”

“Shooting some driver in the face is her job?” Jongdae asked in disbelief, trying to rub away the stinging.

“Yes, actually,” Sarai retorted. “It’s yours too. Read the employee handbook.”

“The patients that escaped have a very rare form of vivus infection,” Choi explained patiently. “We call them outliers, and the full nature of their condition is classified. Within this NIS quarantine facility, only myself, Sarai, and Dr. Han have clearance. In exchange for their organization’s cooperation, select leaders of the militia receive updates on the progress of our research, with, of course, permission of my superiors at the NIS.”

“So, in the parking lot…” Jongdae’s voice trailed off as he remembered his phone. If everything he’d seen here was sanctioned by the Service, anyone who tried to release that video would be hunted and squashed without mercy. Instead of giving them a tool to protect themselves, he’d accidentally given the outliers a backfiring gun.

“What you interrupted in the parking lot was, in fact, a necessary precaution,” Choi said, misinterpreting Jongdae’s sudden silence. “Until we find a suitable treatment, vivus must remain a secret. Most days that means quietly isolating the infected in one of our quarantine facilities so this plague doesn’t spread. Today that meant letting Sarai shoot “some driver” in the forehead so we wouldn’t lose three outliers in one shot. Understand?”

Jongdae didn’t agree. Couldn’t agree. They were asking him to approve of the incarceration and possible execution of people who’d done no wrong, committed no crime. The very idea chafed at the badge pinned on his soul. But. He closed his eyes in resignation. But he did understand. There had been dozens of cases reported this month alone, yet barely any survived long enough to make it to Level 3. How would the body count rise if he went back two months, two years, two decades? He didn’t even want to think about the lives lost indirectly, the unfortunate souls who became collateral damage in a single-celled organism’s fight for survival. Like his brother. He opened his eyes, the sour taste in the back of his throat fading as his resolve firmed. He held out his hand towards Sarai.

“I’m not sorry,” he told her. “I’d do it again.”

Sarai scoffed as she took the handshake, crushing his fingers as she pulled him closer. “The next time we have a problem, come fight me like a man.” If Jongdae were a more honorable person, he would agree to fight fair and he would die promptly during their next argument, his limbs tossed to the four winds. But Jongdae was a practical person, so he pried his hand out of hers, trying not to wince as he vowed to sneak-attack her from behind, always. Straightening, he turned towards Director Choi. 

“I’m not one of your minions,” Jongdae told him. “I don’t follow orders blindly, no matter what I signed. If you want me to be a member of your team, I need to know everything, right now.” 

Choi sighed his agreement and sank wearily into a seat at the conference table, motioning for the other two to do the same. If he saw Sarai stab Jongdae’s foot with her chair leg, he made no comment. Folding his hands over his cane, he began, “I’ll start with the informant. Here’s what we know.”

“The raid on the motel in Seoul was green-lit because militia believed Phoenix was alone and badly injured. When it failed, the militia leaders blamed us for faulty intel, and I blamed their methods.” Jongdae nodded his understanding; he remembered that particular face-off. “But our analysts picked apart the events of that night, and they all reached the same conclusion- the raid should have been a success. The operation had the benefit of complete surprise and overwhelming manpower. All of the variables had been accounted for.”

“But?” Jongdae found himself leaning forward, and pulled back.

“But Kyungsoo received a text from an unknown sender which sent him back to the motel, and he warned Phoenix.” Choi laced his fingers over his crossed knee. “The operation was already in motion, those few seconds of advance warning would have meant nothing for a normal person, even if they’d had an arsenal hidden inside that room. But with his ability, a few seconds is all Phoenix needed to mount a defense and burn that motel to ash.”

“Since then, “ Sarai continued, “Every time the militia catches so much as a whiff of Phoenix, he vanishes before they even have a chance to deploy. James —from Canada— told me it’s been driving everyone nuts.”

“Someone’s tipping him off,” Jongdae agreed, brow furrowing. “Except… the militia teams have all shipped out, so there’s no way anyone here can eavesdrop on their orders.” An unexpected twist. Unless Baekhyun was hiding a government satellite under his bed, he wasn’t the leak. “There’s also no way to get calls in or out when we’re underneath all of this rock.”

“Cleared staff can make calls through the facility’s network,” Sarai said smugly. “But you aren’t on the list.” _Good to know_ , Jongdae filed that tidbit away for later.

“We can safely assume that the informant is an active member of the militia,” Choi forged on, ignoring their sparring, “and that the militia is aware they’ve been compromised. But finding one person with suspect loyalties in that nest of mercenaries would be like finding a particular grain of sand on a miles-long beach.”

“When you came to my apartment, you said you needed me. Why?” Jongdae asked, his curiosity thoroughly piqued.

“Takes one to know one,” Sarai sniped. Choi shot her a look, and she subsided with a roll of her eyes.

“Until they patch their leak, the militia will always be a step short of catching Phoenix. But if we can predict where Phoenix will go we can get ahead of them, and the informant will never know. The key is Kyungsoo.” The old man smiled wryly as Jongdae’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“They’re together, sure, but how is Kyungsoo the key to all this?” Jongdae asked.

Sarai steepled her fingers on the table. “Over the past few years, my team of analysts developed a psychological profile to anticipate Phoenix’s movements.” 

“She’s very proud of it,” Choi added.

“Phoenix is a runner,” Sarai continued. “As soon as he thinks he’s been found, he puts as much distance between him and whoever’s chasing him as possible. Land, sea, air -he uses whatever method is immediately available. Since the prison fire, the militia has been monitoring all paths in and out of Korea, waiting for him to make a break for it. But the last time we found him, he was in a motel in Seoul, barely an hour away from the prison. None of the sightings since then have been near any major ports or border crossings. ”

“He was injured,” Jongdae reasoned. “He can’t go very far in his condition.”

“Even if that was the case at first, he seemed perfectly healthy at the motel,” Sarai reminded him. “Yet, facial recognition from the CCTVs in all of our major cities came up empty. My team has even been trawling the backgrounds of pictures posted on social media, but there’s nothing.”

“Is it really so strange that he would lay low for a while?”

Sarai nodded. “When we couldn’t find a trace of him, our behavioral algorithms crashed, returning a 98% chance that he was dead. If he’s alive, he would have tried leaving the country by now.”

“Unless he’s with someone who doesn’t want to run,” Jongdae realized, snapping his fingers. Of course. Kyungsoo never ran from the schoolyard bullies. He was so small, he would simply wedge himself into the tiniest tunnels in the playground, or when he got older, the crawl space behind the bleachers. More than once, Jongdae had been forced to scatter a crowd of taunters around a ventilation duct or, in the worst case, a storm drain. Kyungsoo always emerged unscathed though, and he called it his “glass door strategem.” The bullies could see him and hurl insults and threats all they wanted, but they could never reach him. 

“It’s very likely that Kyungsoo is calling the shots right now,” Choi echoed Jongdae’s train of thought. “We never thought he would be taking such an active role in helping Phoenix evade us. Frankly, I thought he’d be dead by now. Phoenix never keeps his ‘friends’ for long.”

“So you’ve said before,” Jondae said darkly. “A ’discarded tool’ is the term you used to describe my brother.”

“Yoondae wasn’t infected, though,” Sarai pointed out. “Kyungsoo is an outlier, just like Phoenix. Maybe that’s why they’re sticking together.”

“So regular people be damned, vivus puppets unite?” Jongdae laughed bitterly. “Really?”

“Wolves travel in packs for a reason,” Choi said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “A year ago, Phoenix was an exception to the rule, a freak accident of genetics. But, counting Kyungsoo, three new outliers have surfaced in the last week alone. Whether by design or coincidence, they’re grouping.”

“It could take months for us gather enough data to create an accurate profile of Kyungsoo,” Sarai said. “You were his friend. You know him better than anyone. You know his patterns.”

Kyungsoo wasn’t a fool, he’d know that all of his bank accounts and contacts were being monitored around the clock. Another flash of memory- Jongdae happening across Yoondae and Kyungsoo behind their middle school, stuffing their faces with red bean buns they’d stolen from the local convenience store. The little thieves offered to share with him in exchange for his silence. He’d confiscated everything, and blackmailed them into being his personal servants for months. Kyungsoo told him later that he’d taught them a valuable lesson—how to cover their tracks. Stripped of all of the resources he used to survive in adulthood, Kyungsoo would fall back on his childhood habits - steal what you need, and find a hole to hide in.

“I can help you find Kyungsoo,” Jondae said slowly, “ but then what?”

“We’ll quarantine them,” Choi said, as if it was barely worth a second thought.

“So, shoot first and scrape the remains into little plastic baggies?” Jongdae sneered.

Choi squinted at him. “The militia has a very rigid policy on dealing with Phoenix—”

“And others like him,” Sarai added.

“—which is why we don’t tell them about outliers until after they’re in our custody. We need to reach Kyungsoo first if we want to prevent another Seoul incident.”

“Or another Singapore, another Bangkok, another Hanoi,” Sarai ticked off cities on her fingers.

“What happens after you catch them?” Jongdae pressed. “You’ll lock them up in your torture dungeon—”

“It’s not-”

“I saw what I saw,” Jongdae cut Sarai off. “Call it 'research' if you want, it doesn’t change what you were doing.”

“I admit our methods can be unconventional,” Choi’s reasonable tone made Jongdae grind his teeth. “But we need to find a way to kill this parasite. The outliers are the only ones who live long enough to allow us to study them.”

“I’m not helping you just so you can turn Kyungsoo, or anyone else, into a lab rat for your magical cure.” Jongdae retorted, shaking his head vehemently. “If you want my help, find a different way.”

“And if we refuse to change?” Choi challenged, rising slightly from his chair. “The militia _will_ find Phoenix again. They will try to kill him, and Kyungsoo, and if they fail, whatever tragedy unfolds next will be something you could have prevented. Can your conscience handle it?” Choi’s head tilted as he studied Jongdae. “Your father was a righteous man, and you’re very much like him. Can you live with someone’s blood on your hands?”

Jongdae smiled tightly, but his heart lightened a bit at the mention of his father. “My dad treated Kyungsoo like his own son,” he said. “If you had a son, would you let Dr. Han experiment on him? Even if you were certain you could find a cure?”

Sarai went still as Choi’s expression froze, something fierce and protective burning in his eyes. “Never.” He ground out the word as if it hurt, his hands white-knuckling on his cane, and Jongdae knew he’d won.

“Then we can make a deal.”


	19. The Family You Choose VIII

                                          

Kyungsoo was miserable.

The late afternoon sun was beating down like a hammer, and the woven straw hat on his head was doing nothing to dispel the punishing rays. The trees were gnarled, scraggly things so close to the coast, providing only the barest idea of shade. If Kyungsoo had been told he’d died and this was his eternal torment, he would not have been surprised. Hell was a fishing village, overlooking the sea.

A halmeoni trudged by, dragging her cart of crab-filled buckets up the steep hill from the beach, and Kyungsoo leaped off his perch on the rocks to help her. The cart practically flew up the hill with his help, the old woman cheering him on with gusty shouts and the occasional swipe on the butt from her sweaty towel. At the top of the hill, she gave him a couple of crabs in exchange for his help, and he grinned widely, waving as she disappeared around the bend. The second she was gone, he scowled down at the salty little baggie, snarling at the crustaceans inside. He hated seafood, but of course, what more would he expect from hell.

Four grandmas later, Kyungsoo had amassed quite the fisherman’s haul, his mood dipping with each new acquisition. The men of the village began coming in from the sea, but most of them had scooters to help them transport their day’s work. Kyungsoo waved to each of them as they rode by, exchanging pleasantries or impressed exclamations over the size of the catch as the conversation warranted. As the sun lowered in the sky, the tide of fishermen began to wane, so Kyungsoo gathered his armful of sea dwellers and began making his way back to the village.

His destination was a small house near the village’s edge, its condition halfway between well-lived-in and shambles. He deposited his goods on the wooden deck in the small, brick-paved yard. The blind man who lived there looked up at the sound, his gums showing in a toothless smile.

“Ishad crab?” he lisped, setting aside the basket he was weaving as he sniffed the air.

“YES, HARABEOJI,” Kyungsoo bellowed. The old man’s hearing was sharp enough to identify visitors by their footsteps, but he always made people repeat themselves until they were hoarse from screaming. Even if he hadn’t been their host, Kyungsoo would have liked him for his trollish sense of humor alone. The old man began creaking to his feet, and Kyungsoo left him with the fishy offering. He’d come back in an hour, and all the seafood would be bubbling in a pot of a stew, the old man humming contentedly as he stirred.

Kyungsoo felt his energy picking back up as the sun continued to set, able to appreciate the vibrant orange and red sky now that he wasn’t being steamed like a meat bun. He skipped through the narrow roads, greeting a few housewives as they set out their pots to prepare for their husbands’ catch of the day. Peals of riotous laughter echoed into the deepening dusk, and he followed the sounds to the community center squatting in the center of the village. A truly thunderous roar practically vibrated the eaves as Kyungsoo approached, followed by high-pitched screams. A group of young women clustered at the entrance to the community center, peering inside, giggling and slapping each other excitedly. The Yeol effect, Kyungsoo called it, was in full force. He couldn’t get anywhere close to the door, so he he settled for squinting through the window, tenting his hands around his face to cut the sunset’s glare.

Chanyeol was barely visible, he was just a scaffold for the eight small children gleefully hanging off of his body. He raged around the room, stomping and bellowing like Godzilla as the kids squealed in delight, holding onto his legs and arms for dear life. He even had a toddler strapped onto his back so everyone could be in on the fun. After another five minutes of dinosaur time, he began shaking the clingers free, citing exhaustion. The kids whined in disappointment, but Chanyeol’s shirt was completely transparent and sticking to his broad chest, which the mothers at the door greatly appreciated.

“Again!” A roly-poly child crowed, hopping onto Chanyeol’s calf. “Monster!”

“Monster is tired,” Chanyeol said, ruffling the little boy’s hair as he tried to catch his breath. “Monster will die.”

“Again!” A girl, clearly Roly’s partner in crime, climbed Chanyeol like a tree, latching on to his waist. “One more? Pleeease?”

Kyungsoo could practically see Chanyeol’s heart melting, and the mothers swooned, fanning themselves as he let all the children climb on for another ride. One more time turned into three more times, and then Chanyeol collapsed under the pile of enthusiastic tiny people. The indefatigable tykes proceeded to prop his limbs into various positions so they could use him as a configurable jungle gym. In their zeal for their new game, the pygmies rolled Chanyeol all over the floor, and somewhere between the karaoke machine and the stack of life jackets, he lost his shirt. Kyungsoo thought the mothers were letting this go on for a bit too long, and clucked disapprovingly at their clear and obvious thirst. He marched around to the front of the building, shouldering his way through the ajumma fan club, even taking an elbow to the gut from a particularly strong young woman ( _fanclub president_ , he named her). He began peeling the children off of Chanyeol, much to their dismay. A few tried latching onto him as their new Monster, but he put that to rest with a snarly bark he’d learned from a rabid dog. The would-be clinger ran to her mother in tears as Kyungsoo began helping Chanyeol up.

“They’re swearing at you in their dialect,” Chanyeol chuckled as he dusted a few crumbs of dirt from his sweaty shoulders. Kyungsoo started to help, but then decided that felt weird and went to go find his shirt. He tossed the damp rag at Chanyeol from across the room.

“Enough with the strip show. Put some clothes on, perv.”

“YAH!” Fanclub president screeched from across the entrance. “Why don’t you give your shirt then?!” This was followed by some unnecessarily loud speculation about Kyungsoo’s probable lack of abs. Much to Kyungsoo’s irritation, Chanyeol flashed the mothers a megawatt smile as he sauntered out, still shirtless.

“Don’t make fun of his abs, I’ve seen them.” He tossed a wink over his shoulder. “They’re nice.”

Kyungsoo knew he had just gone beet red, and he covered his face as he ran through the gauntlet of mothers to chase after Chanyeol.

—-

Kyungsoo sneezed awake, then curled himself more tightly as the night breeze ghosted over his bare skin, raising goosebumps. He cracked one eye open, yawning, his hand patting for something that had gone missing… He startled upright as his fingers brushed against scarred wood, still hot to the touch—Chanyeol was gone again. Kyungsoo hastily swung his legs over the side of the bench, pulling on his shirt as he stuffed his feet into his shoes. Rubbing his arms briskly, he jogged out of the courtyard of the old fisherman’s house, heading for the seaside. After spending so much time with a walking furnace, he’d lost all tolerance for the cold, and he was shivering by the time he reached the sand. Kyungsoo ran along the sea shore, salt air whipping his hair into his eyes as his feet sank into the damp sand. Finally, he spotted Chanyeol, a small speck at the furthest edge of the beach, where the sand turned back into rocky coast. 

When he was within shouting distance, Kyungsoo staggered to an exhausted walk. But instead of yelling, he plodded to the arsonist’s side and dropped wordlessly to the sand beside him. Chanyeol didn’t move from his position, arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on his forearms, looking up at the sky. A wave washed in around them, hissing steam as it hit Chanyeol’s legs, burying his feet further and further in the sand. Kyungsoo slipped off his now-useless shoes and wiggled his toes in the pleasantly warm water, sulking a little when the wave retreated back to the sea. He scooted closer to Chanyeol, not _snuggling_ exactly, just taking advantage of his toasty body heat. Stars sparkled in the clear, moonless night, and, between the soothing rustle of the waves, the rhythmic hiss of steam, and the warm water lapping at his shins, Kyungsoo nodded off.

“I used to live on a beach like this.”

The murmured words were so low, Kyungsoo wasn’t sure if he had imagined them.

“The village kids would compete to see who could go the deepest, and the water was so clear, we could watch each other swim to the bottom and touch the ocean floor.”

Kyungsoo raised his head, mostly awake now but still cobwebby from sleep.

“I feel like I’m living in a dream, but I’m afraid to wake up, because everything will be ashes.” Another cloud of steam puffed around Chanyeol as the wave rolled in. “I can smell the smoke. I can hear the world crumbling. But if I keep my eyes closed, I can pretend it’s not real. ”

Kyungsoo rubbed his face. “Is that why you haven’t been sleeping?” he mumbled. “Nightmares?” That explained the scorch marks on the bench.

The breeze tousled Chanyeol’s hair, the white stark against the night. “It’s just a matter of time before death follows me here. I’m a plague. A virus.”

Kyungsoo slapped his cheeks, and the sting finally refreshed him enough to open his eyes fully. “Don’t call yourself that. You saved my life.”

Chanyeol turned to look at him, resting his cheek on his hands, his gaze dark and unreadable. “Did I?”

Kyungsoo frowned at him. “The militia attacked _us_ in that motel. If you hadn’t… done something, we would both be dead.”

“Still, if I left, they wouldn’t have a reason to come after you.” Chanyeol traced a little pattern in the wet sand with one finger. “They’d never come here. You’d be safe.”

“I benched a van,” Kyungsoo reminded him, “I’m pretty sure that earned me a spot on their hit list. So don’t even think about running off and leaving me here alone in this hellhole.” He bumped Chanyeol with his shoulder. “If you do, you’ll just have another person chasing you. And I’m the only one who’s ever caught you.”

Chanyeol didn’t look up from his sand doodle, but the tiniest smile played on his lips. 

Encouraged, Kyungsoo fished his phone from his back pocket, a little damp from the rising tide, and held up the empty notification screen. “Look—no texts, no calls, not a single message from our guardian angel. As long as we keep our heads down and stay off the militia’s radar, we’ll be fine.” He took a deep, cleansing breath of the ocean air. “And if they do find us again, we’ll figure it out. Together.”


	20. Obligations We Inherit VI

                                          

Three sharp knocks rapped against the door, shattering the early morning silence. Jongdae peeled his eyes open, fervently wishing he had dreamed the sound. To his disappointment, a hailstorm rattled the door in its steel frame. 

“Kim! Open up!” Sarai’s call was followed by another flurry of pounding.

Jongdae rose to his elbows in bed and squinted at the glowing dial of his watch. There was still over an hour before their scheduled departure time. He took his time climbing out of bed— Sarai could wear out her knuckles for a bit longer while he pulled on a pair of pants. The moment he opened the door, the diminutive analyst pushed her way inside, her phone held to one ear. Her gaze darted around, dismissing the empty, unused shelves and zeroing in on Jongdae’s backpack, sitting by itself on top of the desk.

“You’re ready to go?” she asked, adding “Not you.” to her phone. Without waiting for Jongdae’s answer, she grabbed his bag and tossed it to him, exiting his room just as abruptly as she’d entered. Jongdae threw his backpack over one shoulder, grabbed his shoes, and ran after her in sock feet.

“Tanzania?” He couldn’t see Sarai’s face as he followed her down the curving corridor, but her voice was tight, upset. “Why did they pull you off the Phoenix operation? They don’t trust you?” She fell silent for a long moment, listening, and Jongdae hopped along, trying to fit his foot into his shoe. “So now the militia is meddling in local politics?” She stopped in front of another door and knocked once, and Jongdae took advantage of the pause to tighten his laces. “Just walk away. All the money in the world’s not worth your life.” 

Sarai tapped her badge to the door’s keypad, and the lock disengaged with a click, the door swinging inward. With a light shove, she pushed Jongdae forward. “He needs to ready to go by the time I get back,” she instructed, her brisk steps already carrying her away. Jongdae longed for his wiretapping equipment as she disappeared around the corner, taking her mysterious, maddeningly detail-sparse conversation with her. He turned to find out where she’d deposited him, skimming the nameplate on the door. _Byun, Baekhyun._ His mood lightened instantly, his thwarted curiosity latching onto a different sort of quarry. Personal spaces often yielded a glimpse into their owner’s psyche-- this could be a chance to peel back some of the the layers surrounding the enigmatic boy. Tingling with anticipation, he toed off his shoes and stepped inside. 

Where Jongdae’s quarters were spartan and utilitarian, Baekhyun’s was a patchwork of color and clutter. Skittle-flavored splotches streaked the walls randomly, as if someone had decorated using the most obnoxious paint samples they could find. Multi-hued pinpricks of light danced along the ceiling, thrown by a spinning globe balanced precariously one on the many stacks of books scattered about the floor. Jongdae picked up two books from the stack closest to the door and couldn’t help smiling. _Red Fish Two Fish_ and _Algorithms to Live By: The Computer Science of Human Decisions_ — typical leisure reading. 

Stretched out on the bed was the enigma himself, his mismatched sheets jumbled near his feet. His back to the door, Baekhyun tapped away busily on his phone, the strains of what sounded like a dying orchestra leaking from his headphones. Jongdae set the books down as quietly as he could and crept to the bedside. With two fingers, he gingerly took hold of Baekhyun’s headphone band, and, with one quick motion, yanked them off with a “BOO!”

Baekhyun screamed bloody murder, bumping his head against the headboard. Jongdae’s dark heart thrilled with satisfaction at finally startling him for a change, and he struggled to keep his face straight as he perched on the edge of the bed. “Sarai told me you need help packing.” 

Baekhyun scowled at him as he rubbed his battered forehead. “What she actually said was ‘Baekhyun _doesn’t_ need help packing because he’s staying home.’ Work on your listening skills.” He snatched the headphones back and jammed them onto his head, flopping facedown onto the bed. Jongdae whisked them off again and skipped backward when Baekhyun lunged for them. He twirled them around one finger, grinning, as Baekhyun seethed from the bed. 

“Pack your stuff, and you’ll get these back.”

Baekhyun blew out a frustrated breath, fluffing his bangs. “I was done with those anyway.” He buried himself facedown in his mattress once more, flattening his tie-dye pillow over his head, world-avoidance mode activated.

Jongdae checked his watch, then reluctantly tossed the headphones onto the bed. As much fun as it would be to flip Baekhyun’s mattress and watch the expression on his face as he flew through the air, they didn’t have the time. Sarai was no longer actively trying to injure him, but he didn’t want to test their truce by being late. He picked his way across the tome-littered floor to the closet and brushed aside the gauzy curtain, revealing a wardrobe that was 90 percent beige and 10 percent goth queen. 

After a moment of intense deliberation, Jongdae chose to ask, “Where’s your suitcase?” 

“Don’t have one,” Baekhyun replied, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“You had one in Canada,” Jongdae reminded him, gathering a random armful from the closet and dumping it onto the bed.

“I burned it.”

Trying to reason with a sulking teen was pointless, so Jongdae abandoned the direct approach. Instead, he drifted around the room, searching for a clue to Baekhyun’s mood. ‘Chaos made manifest’ was a charitable description of the space, excepting the curiously immaculate desk. The shelf above the desk held a row of leather-bound journals, a dozen in all, neatly arranged. A single journal, its cover still unlined and shiny, occupied the place of honor on the writing surface. A sad, bacon-wrapped egg wallowed on top of the journal, hugging a set of ebony fountain pens. Jongdae slid the depressed plushie out of the way and, with a wary glance toward the bed, flipped the book open to its first page.

_January 1_ , the first line read. Calligraphic hangul trailed down the page in traditional vertical lines, but the words themselves were nonsense, written in some secret code. He paged through the rest of the journal swiftly- it was nearly half filled with the cryptic script, one sheet allotted to each day of the year. Jongdae closed the book and gently replaced the egg. He turned his attention to the journals occupying the shelf, trailing his fingers along their spines, noting the signs of wear and tear. He pulled the oldest from its place, and it fell open with ease. Its first page listed the date, _January 1,_ but there was only one line, English, written in a childish scrawl.

_I am four years old again._

He turned the page, hoping for more, but the other entries were indecipherable, just like the current journal. He looked over his shoulder and found Baekhyun watching him from underneath the pillow, one eyebrow raised. Jongdae’s face went warm and, feeling like a parent caught snooping, he carefully re-shelved the journal. Fingers drumming against the surface of the desk, he racked his brain for something trustworthy to say.

“So.” He spoke just to break the silence, then ran out of ideas. He turned to face the bed, clearing his throat awkwardly, on the verge of blurting another inanity, when his attention snagged on another stack of books. _What’s in a Drop of Water?_ the topmost title asked. Jongdae huffed a silent laugh at himself, shaking his head, amazed that he’d overlooked the obvious. He knew exactly what would lure Baekhyun out of his funk, and, with a little finesse, gain his trust as well. “So,” he repeated, shifting his weight so he could sit comfortably on the desk, “don’t you want to know what happened?” _Hook._

“Be less specific,” Baekhyun retorted.

“Engineering that escape took a lot of effort. Don’t you want to know if it was successful?“ _Line._

“Your English needs work. Nothing you said made sense,” Baekhyun said, but his eyes glittered with interest from the pillow’s shadow.

Jongdae pointed his chin toward the pile of clothes he had dumped on the bed, waiting. It didn’t take long. Baekhyun rolled over and reached underneath his bed, pulling out a small duffel bag. With a delicate sneer, he sorted through the mound of white shirts and khaki pants and pulled out a black t-shirt. With an eloguent look in Jongdae’s direction, he dropped it into the duffel. _Sinker._

“Sarai caught up to them in the parking lot with a gun.” 

Baekhyun sprang upright, sending his pillow tumbling to the floor. “AND?”

Jongdae motioned toward the pile of clothes again. “You need pants with that shirt.”

Baekhyun grabbed a handful of clothing and stuffed them into the bag without looking. “AND?!”

“I knocked her out.”

Baekhyun fell backward onto his butt, his jaw falling open. “You did not.”

“She thought I was there to help.” Jongdae spread his hands. “She didn’t watch her back.”

Baekhyun packed a pair of skinny jeans that glinted with bedazzlement. “The witch holds grudges, you know.”

Jongdae choked back a laugh. “There’s no way you call her that to her face.”

Baekhyun smirked as he folded something lime-green and satiny into his bag. “I like my manhood where it is.” He reached underneath his bed again, pulling out a plastic bin. “So what happened after you doomed yourself?”

“The escapees hijacked the Hong Kong courier. Security sent out a helicopter and a pair of cars, but apparently, their GPS trackers were spoofed. The chase team hunted a perfectly innocent family of five all the way to their house in Wi...” he paused, leaving the unfamiliar word hanging.

“Wyoming,” Baekhyun finished, fishing a few pairs of polka-dot socks from the bin. Jongdae gave himself an internal high-five at the confirmation. Baekhyun was definitely the mastermind.

“The teams are trying to search for them the old-fashioned way, but there’s not a lot they can do without attracting the attention of the press or stepping on the jurisdictional toes of our territorial hosts.”

“What a shame,” Baekhyun said brightly. He disappeared into the room’s small bathroom, then poked his head out, holding up a pair of plastic packets. “How many face masks should I take? Enough for one week? Two?”

“Three.” Sarai swept into the room, clad in tactical pants and a hunter’s vest, an army duffel slung over one shoulder. “Are you done?”

Baekhyun flew out of the bathroom and hurled himself on top of his bag, hurriedly zipping it shut before she could see what was in it. “Almost.”

Sarai’s eyes slitted in suspicion. “You’re packing something weird, aren’t you?”

Baekhyun shook his head vigorously, and drew a pair of khaki’s from the pile of clothes, his face contorted in disgust. He forced it into a tiny opening in the zipper, then smiled up at her sunnily. 

Sarai’s chin jutted out, fingers tapping, unconvinced. “Where are your meds?” she asked at last, and held out her hand. “I’ll carry them so they don’t get lost again.”

Baekhyun clutched his bag to his chest, bed springs creaking as he wriggled backward. “They’re all the way in the bottom.”

“That’s what you said last time.” Sarai bounced her hand impatiently. “Hand them over.”

“I ran out.” He toyed with the bag’s zipper, not meeting her eyes. 

Sarai’s hand went to her hip. “You used up a week’s supply of pills in one day?”

In a tiny voice, Baekhyun confessed, “I flushed them down the toilet.”

“Baek!” Sarai gasped, her duffel dropping to the ground with a dull thud. “You flushed-” She dragged her hands through her short hair, making it stand on end. “When— How long have you been off your meds?!”

When the boy picked at a loose thread in his sheet instead of answering, Sarai scrubbed her face in weary vexation. “It’ll take at least a day to synthesize a new batch.” 

“We can just go without it.” Baekhyun batted his eyelashes at her and received a sharp flick on the forehead for his trouble. 

“We’re not flying to another country without your pills.” Sarai turned away from him and whipped out her phone, muttering, “We’ll have to rework the formulation again.” She missed the wicked glint that appeared in Baekhyun’s eyes. Jongdae sucked in a breath, wishing he had popcorn for the show.

“Just take that nifty blowgun you used in Canada,” Baekhyun suggested, his tone caustic. Sarai winced, the phone lowering to her side as she pivoted slowly to face Baekhyun. He stretched his right leg out in a dancer’s extension and jabbed an accusatory finger at his thigh. “It worked _great._ ”

Sarai licked her lips. “You remember that?” 

“I didn’t have to! Turns out,” Baekhyun yanked up his pants leg, revealing a fading black-blue bruise, “shooting someone with a giant needle leaves a mark!”

“Han developed the rescue serum last month,” Sarai explained, drying her palms on her pants. “I wasn’t expecting to actually use it.” She shook a scolding finger at Baekhyun. “I wouldn’t have had to use it if you were taking your pills. It’s no wonder you’ve been having so many episodes lately.”

“Not the point.” Baekhyun sullenly rearranged himself so he was facing the wall. “You promised you’d _ask first_ before using anything new on me. Naughty.“ The last word was muttered under his breath, and Sarai lost a few shades of color in her face. 

“I’m sorry, okay?” She grabbed her bag from the floor, shouldering it hastily, but whirled back to Baekhyun before she reached the door. “Don’t you dare put ants in my bed again!”

“Don’t worry,” Baekhyun said, still facing the wall, arms crossed. “They won’t be ants.”

_Ooh, plot twist._ Jongdae hugged himself, barely containing his amusement.

Sarai leaned one hand on the doorknob, sucking deep breaths through her nose. Leather groaned as the handle of her duffle crumpled in her tightening grip. “My sister sent me a face cream made with the mud of the Nile,” she gritted out. “It’s very expensive.” 

“That’s nice.” Baekhyun’s shoulders hunched stubbornly.

Sarai strangled her bag strap, her teeth bared in a grin closer to rigor-mortis than mirth. “I’ll give it to you!” she chirped in a sugary voice. Jongdae smothered a laugh with both hands.

Baekhyun spun around, his eyes wide. “Really??!” He bounced to his feet. “Thank you, _noona_!” He gleefully blew her an elaborate, double-handed heart-shaped kiss. Sarai batted it out of the air, but her scowl didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“I need to give the lab an address to ship the new batch of pills.” She yanked open the door. “Finish packing and be at the car in ten.” The door slammed behind her with a percussive thud, sending several book stacks tumbling.

Baekhyun jumped excitedly from one side of his bed to another, chanting “Face cream, face cream!” with every leap.

“How has she not killed you yet?” Jongdae wondered aloud, watching him. “I’m sure she knows plenty of ways. ”

Baekhyun used his last jump to launch himself towards the desk. “She gets paid to put up with me,” he said, pulling open a drawer. “And her salary is really high.”

“I thought she was an analyst.” Jongdae peeked over Baekhyun’s shoulder as he rifled through the veritable magpie hoard inside— chrome lipstick tubes, rings plain and jeweled, bracelets and cuff links monogrammed with other people’s names, bullets. 

When Baekhyun withdrew his hands, each of his long fingers was decorated with a different ring. “She slums it up with the number munchers in her free time, but her life revolves around me,” he said absently, fitting a black stud in one ear, “World’s most dangerous nanny.”

Jongdae sat up straighter, looking around the room with fresh eyes. “Did Sarai give this to you?” he asked, poking the journal-guarding egg. He slid off of the desk and picked up _Red Fish Blue Fish_ from its stack. “And these? 

Baekhyun grunted in affirmation as he carted a tray of travel-size cosmetics from the bathroom. “We’re playing a game - if I behave all week, I get a prize.” He popped open a miniature tube of lotion labeled Hyatt and squirted a bit onto the back of his hand, sniffing appreciatively. “But being nice is boring, so I added a rule.” He stuffed a handful of the small bottles into his bag. “ Whenever the witch does something I don’t like, we play trick-or-treat.” 

“Ants in her bed?” Jongdae guessed, Sarai’s earlier skittishness becoming clear.

“That was years ago. I’m not _that_ evil, anymore. I prefer treats to tricks nowadays.” Baekhyun tugged a silky red shirt from the pile of clothes and stroked it lovingly, “I got this beauty last week, for Joon-hyung.”

Jongdae affected nonchalance as he toyed with a .38 special from the drawer of shinies. “Who’s Joon?” 

“Nobody you know.” Baekhyun tossed his bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go, or the witch will take back her face cream.”

Jongdae hefted his own backpack, organizing his thoughts as the boy led the way to the elevator. He’d gotten a few more pieces of the Baekhyun puzzle, but the edges weren’t fitting together like he’d expected. He’d been assuming that Baekhyun was a quarantine agent like himself—precocious, prone to the idiosyncrasies of youth, and more than a little sneaky— but still, an employee. An employee could become disenchanted with his employer’s methods and turn traitor. It would have made for a clear-cut motive, a straightforward starting point for the recent chain of events. But Baekhyun lived here; this quarantine facility had been his home for years, maybe even his entire life. It muddied things.

“Why did you do it?” Jongdae said to the air. When Baekhyun looked at him quizzically, he amended, “Hypothetically- if you were the one who cut the alarms?”

“I would have done it just to watch the polos run around the state,” Baekhyun chuckled. “They don’t get enough exercise.”

Jongdae cut his eyes at him. “You would throw away everything you worked for just for fun?”

The elevator arrived, the doors opening with a smooth hiss. Baekhyun stepped inside, and when he turned to face Jongdae, his grin was devilish. “How could I resist?” He beckoned Jongdae inside. “Hypothetically.”

Jongdae joined him, and the elevator rocked slightly as it traveled upward. “Hypothetically, would you- the saboteur- would help us recapture them? Even though you just helped them escape?”

Baekhyun shrugged. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

“So, hypothetically, you’re okay with going after Phoenix?”

“Wait, what?”

An electronic ping announced their arrival at the first floor, but when neither of them moved, the doors slid quietly shut again.

Baekhyun was holding his breath, his body rigid with tension, pupils blown wide open. Jongdae evaluated his reaction with narrowed eyes. “Sarai doesn’t brief you on the missions?”

“Phoenix! Finally! Kyaaaah!” Baekhyun high-fived the control panel and spun in circles down the corridor as soon as the doors opened. I guess not.

“You’re not supposed to know about the outliers,” Jongdae remembered, trotting to keep up.

“Neither are you,” Baekhyun scoffed, a bit breathless from his celebration.

“I have full clearance now,” Jongdae waved his new badge in the air. “The director told me everything.”

“Everything.” Baekhyun snickered as he skipped back and forth in front of Jongdae. “Did the old man tell you Phoenix has been tying the gunhuggers in knots for nine years?”

“Nine?” Interpol’s records for the Virus only went back three years prior to his arrest. “Nine?!” 

“Did you know he fabricated the Interpol record?” Baekhyun continued, guessing his train of thought. “He put in just enough to give Phoenix horns and a tail, but conveniently left out all mention of the gunhuggers’ cockups along the way.”

Jongdae’s head started to spin, but Baekhyun was relentless.

“Did he tell you he started the militia? Did you know outlier abilities aren’t random? Did you know he and Sarai are related? Did you know-”

“How do you know all this?” Jongdae demanded. 

Baekhyun danced to a stop, and sighed at him, pity in his eyes. “Was there a quota they needed to fill when they let you become a cop?”

Jongdae escorted Baekhyun the remainder of their trip in a headlock. A small sedan waited near the entrance of the facility, Director Choi strapped into the passenger seat. Sarai looked up from rearranging the luggage in the truck, her eyes widening as they entered.

“Noona! He’s a madman, save me!” Baekhyun finally managed to eel out of Jongdae’s grip and fled to her side.

Sarai simply took his bag and dumped it into the trunk. “Check your shoes, sheets, and shampoo from now on,” she told Jongdae, slamming the lid shut. “The imp holds grudges.”


	21. That Stranger You Pity III

                                          

Kris had been zigzagging the desert for hours trying shake any pursuers. He skipped from road to road, randomly heading north, then west or south, changing direction whenever the chance arose. His scattered weaving in the night paid off as the dawn revealed skies blue and empty, the mountain-based hunters nowhere to be seen. As the sun climbed, his adrenaline-fueled focus faded, replaced by a thoroughly distracting idea.

At first, he tried to concentrate on the road. He put his whole being into it— counting the white mile markers as they zipped past, then forcing himself to memorize the license plates of the cars that passed him in the early morning rush. But eventually the car pleaded for gas, which meant heading for the highway exit, which meant merging to the right, which meant checking that mirror, a motion brought it squarely into his field of view. Joonmyeon, or more specifically, Joonmyeon’s neck—pale, vulnerable and _right there._

The hijacker had been hyper-vigilant all throughout the night, obsessing over every shadow that passed overhead, eyeballing every car that approached. But sometime in the gray hours of the morning, he’d drifted off, and now his head lolled against the window, revealing his jugular, blue and delicate under his skin. One jab from the stiletto in Kris’ sleeve or a quick slice with the razorblade he kept folded in his collar, and that vein would gush the water-wielder’s life onto the leather seats. If their quarry turned up in a roadside ditch, the hunters would end this chase. No-one really cared about the courier, he was just a victim of circumstance. Once he dumped Joonmyeon, he could haul Yixing across the Pacific, hand him over, and get back to his life.

The car bumped over uneven pavement as Kris pulled into the gas station, and Joonmyeon shifted awake. He lifted his head with effort, squinting as he took in their unfamiliar surroundings. “Gas station,” Kris told him. “Outside of Las Vegas.” Joonmyeon grunted his understanding, his eyes already closing, his body relaxing almost immediately. Incredulous, Kris watched him sleep, listening to the Yixing’s snuffly snore and Minseok’s quiet breathing from the backseat. In Kris’ world, insomnia was a basic survival skill, and trust was just something people did right before they died. Yet, even after they’d seen the tools of his trade, these three had left their lives in his hands. It was mind-bogglingly short-sighted of them.

He flexed his wrist, and his stiletto slipped into his fingers, warm from his body heat and familiar as his own hand. If Yixing resisted, he could alway dispatch the lot of them and tell the boss the hunters did it— maybe bash himself up a little to make it seem like he’d tried to save Yixing. Except, the boss had been in a sharpening mood when they last spoke. It might not matter what story Kris told, he would lose his head for losing Yixing. Kris rolled the smooth metal in his hands, thinking things through. He had never taken a life without a direct order from Yong. Even then, the cold-blooded kills— the ones where they cried, or begged, or were just plain young— those left a tarnish on his steel that wouldn’t polish away. It would be a shame to dirty such a pretty little blade, and then have his head chopped off anyway. Kris slid the stiletto back into the lining of his sleeve, and climbed out the car, closing the door quietly.

As he pumped fuel, he tried to convince himself it was the punishment for failure, not sentimental weakness, that stayed his hand. He wouldn’t stick around indefinitely, he reasoned. The first chance he got, he would take Yixing, and let Aquaman and Frosty fend for themselves. The nozzle disengaged with hollow clank, the sound startling Joonmyeon awake. As Kris re-shelved the nozzle, the Brit climbed out of his seat and spread his arms in a spine-crackling stretch.

“Thought you would have done a bunk by now,” he said through his yawn.

“A what?”

“Run off. Skipped out. Left us twisting in the wind.” 

Kris’ heart skipped a beat. “Demons _can_ read minds!”

”Demon?!” Joonmyeon burst into hand-clapping laughter, his eyes disappearing into twin arcs of hilarity.

“It’s not that funny,” Kris grumbled, stuffing his hands his pockets, his ears burning in embarrassment.

“No, no, you’re right.” Joonmyeon cleared his throat, his brows knitted gravely as he solemnly raised his hand. “I swear I’m not a supernatural creature that can hear your thoughts.” He barely finished before his lips began quivering again, his breath coming in snorts. Kris stalked away to pay for the gas. 

When he returned, Joonmyeon was waiting outside of the car, an apologetic frown replacing his earlier laughter. _The smile was nicer._ Kris gave himself a swift mental slap for the thought, followed by a real one. Joonmyeon cocked his head to one side in confusion, but Kris just hunched his shoulders and ran for the driver’s seat.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Joonmyeon explained as they settled into their places. “I’m a bit out of practice with the whole talking-to-people thing. I’m afraid my social graces went a bit rusty inside that mountain.”

Kris’ ears flamed again, the fire spreading down the back of his neck and creeping over his face as he desperately busied himself with the car. Apologies should be insincere, cuss-laden rants or tearful gibberings after a prolonged tenderization. They should be worthless and easily discarded, like a cheap paper cup. But Joonmyeon’s apology, all manners and concern, was tea in a china cup, spriggy, gold-leaf flowers around the rim and tiny cubed sugars in the saucer. Kris had already decided not to kill him, and gracefully polite wasn’t his style, so he ignored the apology altogether, faking a bout of coughing to cover up the awkwardness.

“How far are we from the city?” Joonmyeon asked finally, fighting another smile.

“Thirty minutes,” Kris croaked, clearing his sore throat. Now he could use some tea. _Damn demon._

“Let’s stop at the first hotel we find,” Joonmyeon suggested. “We can eat, rest, and,” he plucked at his thin shirt and wiggled his bare toes, “Minseok and I need proper clothes.”

The outskirts of Las Vegas was littered with hotels—barely five minutes passed before Kris was pulling into the lot of a ramshackle roadside inn. After one look at Joonmyeon, his features scrunched in distaste, Kris drove through the lot and back onto the road, shaking his head. Even destitute, half-dressed, and hunted, the Brit had standards. Kris drove in circles around the city, stopping at every lodging establishment they passed, trying to find one that Joonmyeon wouldn’t wrinkle his nose at. Along the way, the elderly manager of a secluded bed-and-breakfast became the delighted owner of a shiny new SUV. An hour and another car swap later, Kris wearily parked their ancient hatchback near the entrance of a sprawling resort, and Joonmyeon’s lips curled up in approval. 

The receptionist at the front desk brightened as Kris and Joonmyeon entered the glass-walled, marble-floored lobby. Her sharp gaze zipped over Kris’ expensive cufflinks and jacket-less suit to linger on Joonmyeon’s shirt, the thin fabric nearly translucent in the strong sunlight.

“King bed suite?” she suggested with a wide, hospitable smile.

Kris opened his mouth to decline, but hesitated when the receptionist winked at him. “Um…”

“We keep several available for our daytime visitors, so there’s no need to wait for the afternoon check-in time!” 

Kris was missing something. He could feel it in his gut, the same way he knew when someone was hiding from him inside a room he’d just left. The receptionist’s hands hovered over her keyboard, her eyebrows raised encouragingly.

“I am not a rentboy,” Joonmyeon said, his tone flinty. _OH._ “We’ll be needing a room with two beds, if you please.”

“Of course, sir!” The receptionist’s smile never faltered but sweat beaded her upper lip as she blazed through the hotel’s booking system, fingers tapping frantically. “I have a double queen room with a separated lounge and a balcony! Will that work for you, sir?” 

“Like a charm,” Joonmyeon assured her, and the receptionist breathed a little sigh of relief. 

Kris signed for the room, telling himself he was in no way bothered by the fact that he, the one with money, had not been called sir. He handed the receptionist one of his fake credit cards with a smile of his own. They’d be gone long before charge bounced back. Joonmyeon collected the roomkeys from the woman, and passed one to Kris as they walked across the glittering lobby toward the bank of elevators.

“Go on to the room,” Joonmyeon murmured, leaning close. “I’ll get Minseok and Yixing and bring them through a side door.”

Kris gestured towards the perfectly operational, unlocked main entrance they had just used. “Why can’t they just come in the front?”

Joonmyeon swiveled toward him, his eyes searching Kris’ face for signs of a joke. When he didn’t find any, disappointed pity washed over his face. With the tone of a mother to a very slow five-year-old, he said, “I have Yixing’s shoes,” he held up one foot, showing off the thin-soled slippers, ”and Minseok’s shirtless.”

Kris’ instinctual response to that level of disrespect was a backhand across the offender’s face. Fortunately for Joonmyeon, his fingers didn’t even twitch, thanks to the zen meditation class he’d taken a year ago. The fact that Joonmyeon could witch-slap him back and drown him with his own spit played no role in his restraint. 

“We paid for the room” Kris attempted to explain his reasoning, but Joonmyeon closed his eyes in resignation, the frondy plants nearby rustling with the force of his sigh. “Why do they care what we wear?!”

“Just trust me.” Joonmyeon shooed Kris toward the elevator, and Kris obeyed, grimacing.

To compensate for her faux pas, the receptionist had given them a large room, but Kris was unimpressed. All he saw was two beds, a couple of couches, and a balcony that looked out onto the brick wall of a neighboring tower. Kris walked out into the small outdoor space, checking the exterior to make sure there was no handy fire escape near their room for an assassin to climb. He locked the patio doors and shut the curtains, just in case, snagged a five dollar bottle of volcano water from the minibar, and collapsed heavily onto the bed. He switched on the television and stared at it, bored, as he chugged the overpriced tap water. Less than 24 hours ago, he’d been a favored son of the Hong Kong Dragon, a feared enforcer and respected member of the triad. Now he was sitting in a vanilla hotel room, mindlessly watching ESPN, a useless husband waiting for his wife and kids.

As if summoned, Kris’ makeshift family burst into the room. Minseok held open the door, looking exactly like a child wearing his father’s suit coat, while Joonmyeon piggybacked Yixing, who apparently couldn’t be bothered to walk.

Kris rolled his eyes at the sight. “Just put him here,” he said, waving to the bed where he was sitting. If Yixing was going to glue himself to someone, it might as well be him. At least he had experience.

Yixing tightened his arms around Joonmyeon’s neck, “I don’t want to sleep with you,” he refused, glaring at Kris.

Kris crossed his legs, shrugging off the slight. “You liked me well enough on the plane,” he muttered. Traitor.

Joonmyeon dumped Yixing onto the other bed. “Sleep wherever you want,” he gasped, mopping sweat from his forehead. “I need to find a place to buy clothes. Minseok, you can choose a bed, too. I’ll sleep later.” 

Minseok took a step into the room, but Yixing captured Joonmyeon’s wrist and dragged him onto the bed with him. “I’ll keep Joon-ge,” he said, crushing Joonmyeon into a bearhug. “You can have Kris-ge.” 

With Herculean effort, Joonmyeon managed to peel Yixing’s arms away, only for the kid’s long legs to wrap themselves firmly around his waist. “Yixing,” he puffed, his voice thinning with exhaustion, “Get off!”

“He won’t,” Kris said smugly, as Minseok edged toward his bed, avoiding the flailing limbs. “He’s made of velcro.”

Joonmyeon wriggled free, but ended up flat on his back, pinning Yixing against the headboard with both feet. “Why are you being like this?!”

Yixing stopped fighting for a momen, and eyed Kris suspiciously. “If you leave us alone, he’ll run away.”

“I would never leave you behind,” Kris said through his teeth, his fingers tightening on a handful of sheets.

“You did it before,” Yixing argued. He pointed at Minseok, “You left Min-ge in the weeds!”

Kris spread his hands, defensively. “We went back for him.” 

“Don’t worry, Yixing,” Joonmyeon interrupted,“If Kris really wants to leave, he has to take you with him. Isn’t that right…Yifan?” 

Kris kept his expression neutral, waiting for the other punch to fall. Joonmyeon was frustratingly quick on the uptake. He’d lost his name and his secret bargaining chip all at once. The not-a-telepath released Yixing, and rolled to sit upright, facing him. “I think Yixing likes us more than you right now.”

Yixing bared his teeth in Kris’ direction, and Kris tucked his hands under his legs, clearing his throat to mask the motion.

“We haven’t known each other long, but I imagine he’s a handful when he’s unhappy.” Joonmyeon mused thoughtfully, as Yixing began wrapping one of his forearms in a sheet. “Even if you tried to take him by force, you wouldn’t get very far.” 

Kris chuckled bitterly. ‘Handful’ was an understatement. He’d encountered attack dogs with less ferocity, and the fact that the wounds Yixing inflicted just healed over was scarier than if they’d gone black and rotten. It had taken only seconds for Yixing’s blood to overcome that hospital orderly, and he died in minutes, with barely a sound. Yixing said he could control the effect— what if he decided to stop playing nice? Phantom pain twinged through his hand.

“Because of what we can do, the militia wants all three of us.” Joonmyeon said intently. “Yixing included. Even if he was willing to leave with you, I’d be against it. He’s safer with us. You’re _both_ safer with us.” 

As much as Kris hated to admit it, Joonmyeon was right. He had always been a lone wolf, but people who could throw water and breath ice made for decent allies if the hunters ever did catch up with them. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to stay together until the boss contacted him with more concrete orders. Maybe, just this once, there was safety in numbers. Joonmyeon grinned, as if Kris’ thoughts were scrolling across his forehead in a blinking marquee.

“So that’s sorted, then.” Joonmyeon raised his arm, now tightly bound to Yixing’s with several twists of hotel sheet. “Now we need to figure out who will go for supplies, because I’m a bit tied up.”


	22. That Stranger You Pity IV

Kris threaded his finger through the white plastic hanger, lifting the child’s t-shirt from the rack. He held it up in the air, squinting across the aisle to compare it to the tiny person it was meant for. It seemed like the right size… His object of study glanced up, catching him in the act, and Kris hastily stuffed the shirt back onto a nearby shelf. Minseok marched across the aisle, picked up the crumpled shirt, and held the ridiculously small scrap of cloth against his chest with wordless disdain.

“It might fit,” Kris said defensively. They’d swapped clothing again for this outing, and Minseok was wearing his dress shirt now, the sleeves rolled above his elbows in bulky folds, the tail hanging to the middle of his thighs. He was practically drowning in all that fabric, so Kris didn’t think it was unreasonable that he had slightly underestimated the little man’s size.

Shaking his head, Minseok neatly resettled the t-shirt on its hanger and placed it back with its kin. Then he took Kris’ elbow in his surprisingly firm grip and towed him across the aisle, where the cartoon-emblazoned t-shirts and bright patterned shorts gave way to stylish cuts and sensible collars. He stationed him in front of a rack of hooded shirts.

“These seem like Yixing’s style,” Minseok suggested, holding out a couple of comfy-looking shirts.

Kris tossed the garments over his arm, sulking. “I could do this myself,” he grumbled as Minseok browsed through the other styles. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Minseok blinked up at him, only his eyes visible above the rack of clothes. “Babysitter?”

“Joonmyeon made you come, right? If I try anything, you’re supposed to freeze me in a block of ice or something.”

Minseok rose to his tiptoes, frowning as he surveyed Kris’ height. “I’d need about eighty liters of water,” he said thoughtfully, “and a six-foot container. You’d also have to hold really still.”

“You can’t just…?” Kris wiggled his fingers in the air, trying to mimic the graceful, swirling gestures Joonmyeon used to summon his liquid minion. Minseok copied his motion, a gummy grin flashing across his face when Kris flinched away.

“Relax,” the shorter man chuckled. “I’m not a sorcerer, and Joonmyeon didn’t send me with any secret mission.”

Kris straightened from his protective crouch, surprised. “Why did you come then?” He’d dumped Minseok on the side of the highway without a second thought. There was no reason he’d want to hang out with him unless… Kris ducked down again, protecting his internal organs. “ Are you here for revenge?”

“I came because this was a really nice suit,” Minseok said, caressing the sleeve of his shirt. “It must have been tough to see it treated this way.”

“It’s just cloth,” Kris shrugged, feigning nonchalance. The suit had been a reward for eradicating an upstart mobster-wannabe trying to usurp the boss’ gambling business. Like everything Yong gave him, it had instantly become the most expensive thing Kris had ever owned. He’d kept it wrapped in silk, and had only ever worn it once. Giving up the jacket, and then the shirt to Minseok had been one of the hardest sacrifices he’d ever had to make. That his benevolence had been Yixing-mandated and tooth-enforced made it even harder to bear. _My poor suit,_ Kris mourned silently. _I couldn’t protect you._

Minseok studied him for a moment, his head tilted to one side, dark eyes intent. “Thank you.” He made it sound like Kris had saved his firstborn.

“It’s not a big deal.” Kris pulled his jacket tighter over his thin undershirt, turning away to hide his rapidly heating face. 

“I’ll give back your shirt now.” Minseok pointed his chin towards a sign for the dressing room. “Just give me a minute.” He disappeared into the forest of clothing racks, and Kris thumped his chest as he watched him go, trying to calm the wiggly feeling in his heart.

After waiting what felt like hours, Kris circled the men’s department for the fifth time, searching for his small companion. He was beginning to wonder if he’d been ditched when something soft thwacked against the back of his head. Kris whirled to find a package of socks at his feet, and his gaze shot up to find Minseok standing behind him, hands on his hips, foot tapping.

“You’ve walked past me twice,” Minseok informed him drily as Kris stared at him in astonishment. He was barely recognizable, transformed from head to toe by a beanie, plaid shirt, and— 

“Those are really tight jeans,” Kris blurted, eyeing Minseok’s impressive thighs. He could crack walnuts with those quads.

Minseok followed his gaze downward and dusted a speck of lint from the black fabric. “They’re a bit loose actually.” He pointed to the pile of clothes and shoes Kris was hugging to his chest. “Are those all for Yixing?”

“I thought he’d need more than one change,” Kris admitted. That he’d gotten carried away while color-coordinating the outfits was a secret he’d take to his grave.

Minseok tugged one of the shirts from Kris’ grip, nearly unseating the whole pile in the process. He glanced at the price tag and drew in a scandalized breath. “Fifty dollars!?”

Kris snatched it back, swiveling away so Minseok couldn’t see the price tags on anything else. “It’s my credit card,” he said testily.

“I won’t say anything.” Minseok held up his hands in surrender, his cheek dimpling with a repressed smile. “What should we buy for Joonmyeon?”

“A priest,” Kris suggested, and Minseok snickered.

“I think he’d prefer a casual shirt and oxfords.” He turned to look back the way he’d come. “I saw some nice stuff near the dressing rooms.”

Kris’ followed him, thinking of the sudden temperature drops during Yixing’s healing session, the branching patterns of frost that had blanketed the inside of their SUV.

“What are you, though? I’ve seen you control the weather,” Kris pressed when Minseok held up a pair of jeans for inspection. “You made it snow in the middle of the desert.” He lowered his voice as a shopping family wandered by. “If you’re not a fairy or a demon, then how do you explain what you can do?”

“Adaptive dysautonomia,” Minseok said, briskly flicking through a rack of cardigans. “It’s a fancy way of saying I soak up heat like a sponge, especially when I’m cold. The doctor who came up with it could never get his paper published, though.” 

“So, other people knew about you?” Kris huddled closer as Minseok drifted between stacks of clothing. “Aren’t you supposed to keep your powers a secret?”

“My village was too small for anyone to have secrets. When the mayor went to the doctor for warts, within an hour everyone knew it was from his affair with the schoolteacher’s husband.” Minseok threw a pair of shirts over his shoulder before heading for the shoes.

Kris chased after him. “So you can turn things into ice and nobody cared?” His outburst earned more than a few curious looks, and he lowered his voice again. “If they didn’t think you were weird, why’d they send you to a doctor?”

“When I was four, my kindergarten went out to watch the aurora borealis. Everyone says I must have wandered away, but the only thing I remember is sitting in the snow, staring up at the sky.” Minseok’s eyes unfocused, his gaze turning inward at the memory. “I felt like I was the only thing in the whole universe. The stars went on forever in every direction, and if I held my breath, I could hear them whispering to me.” Minseok shook his head sharply, leaving the moment behind. “Anyway, I must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was my foster mom on her knees, hugging me. The whole village was with her, and everyone was crying.”

Kris sat on a nearby bench, fascinated. “How long had you been missing?”

“Three days,” Minseok corrected, holding a pair of sneakers against his foot. “The newspaper clippings said the temperature was 30 below zero that whole week.”

Kris’ jaw dropped. “And you were fine?” He leaned over, trying to see Minseok’s feet. “Your toes didn’t turn black and fall off?”

“According to my mom, when they found me, I was so warm that everything inside my coat was damp from sweat. She thought it was a miracle, but a big hospital in Vancouver convinced her to let them study me,” Minseok explained. “I lived there for a year until their funding was cut off. The study was never published, but Mom kept a copy in her photo album.” 

“So you never get cold? Ever?” Kris asked in awe. _So useful_. “But how do you make it snow?”

“The heat has to come from somewhere.” Minseok held out his hand. “Try it.”

Kris shifted his pile of clothes so he could reach out, hesitantly touching his index finger to Minseok’s open palm. Faster than he could react, before he could register cold!, Minseok interlaced their fingers.

Goosebumps shivered down Kris’ spine, his muscles locking, limbs jerking involuntary, his chest squeezing painfully as a bitter chill settled into his bones.

“W-what are you d-doing to me,” Kris forced the words through his clenched, chattering teeth.

“Stealing your body heat,” Minseok said cheerfully. “Just two degrees though.” He released his hand, and Kris tumbled to the ground, clothes scattering around him, heart hammering in shock.

“You could have killed me!” Kris tucked his hands into his armpits, trying to squeeze warmth back into his numbed limbs.

“Probably,” Minseok winced, gingerly shaking out his hand, which was a bright, sunburned red. “But that wouldn’t have been fun for either of us.”

“You're a vampire!” Kris realized.

“No.” Minseok paused in blowing on his reddened fingers, offended.

“A heat vampire,” Kris continued, undeterred. “Siphoning the warmth from your victims.”

“I am not—”

“You're very pale,” Kris pointed out. “You probably don’t go outside much.”

“I’m a park ranger,” Minseok retorted. 

“Perfect! Who would notice a few missing hikers?” Kris concluded. The pieces were all coming together. 

“Fine,” Minseok rolled his eyes in exasperation. “If I'm a wilderness vampire, and Joonmyeon's a British water demon, what does that make Yixing?” 

“A cannibal werewolf,” Kris answered instantly. He'd given this one a lot of thought. Dozens of reputable medical websites supported his theory. “Why are you laughing?”

Minseok wasn't even laughing properly; he had just folded over with a prolonged wheeze of mockery. Kris climbed to his feet, waiting for him to pull himself together, but Minseok just pointed at him helplessly, tears of unbridled hilarity gathering in the corner of his eyes. Kris coughed uncomfortably, trying to dislodge the tickle in his chest, but a chuckle slipped free instead. That set Minseok off into a full blown episode, and Kris fled for the checkout counter, Minseok’s whooping cackles echoing behind him.

"You remind me of someone," Minseok told him, wiping tears as they waited in line. "A pen pal when I was in the hospital. He said the sky was blue because it was actually an ocean, and clouds were countries full of white-haired people living upside down.”

Kris didn’t see how that infantile nonsense related to his perfectly logical diagnosis, but kept that to himself. “What was his name?” he asked instead.

“We went by nicknames,” Minseok said. “He was Ghost, and I was Snowbunny.”

Kris brayed out a laugh, attracting irritated glances from the other shoppers in line.“SNOWBUNNY!!”

“I was four.” Minseok raised an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t your parents ever give you a cute nickname?”

“Boss lets his kids choose their own names. If they call themselves something like Bloodfist or Snake-Eyes, he knows they’re morons and will die of stupidity in a few months.” Except Butcher. Sadly, he’d made it all the way to adulthood. Despite Kris’ best efforts.

The soccer mom behind them switched checkout lanes with a muttered _Oh dear_ , and Minseok waved to her apologetically. 

“So, is Yixing one of your boss’ …kids?” he asked, handing their purchases to the cashier, one by one. “He calls you his brother, but you don’t look alike at all.”

Kris snorted derisively. “I sprang him from the nuthouse less than a week ago.”

“Ah!” Minseok snapped his fingers in revelation, as if a vexing mystery had finally been solved. “I wondered why he liked you so much.”

“Likes me?” Kris scoffed bitterly. “Likes me with soy sauce, you mean.” The way Yixing licked his teeth that first time was still vivid in Kris’ memory.

“Biting is an instinctive way of expressing difficult feelings.” Minseok said knowingly. “Maybe he’s just trying to let you know when he’s unhappy.”

“ _Unhappy?_ ” Kris held out his hands, but Yixing’s repeated tooth mangling hadn’t left even the faintest trace of a scar. “What about me? He could eat half of me every night, and no-one would ever know. He’s a nightmare.”

“The full moon is coming soon,” Minseok’s lips wobbled as he tried to keep a straight face. “You should make nice before he decides he likes your taste more than your personality. Your literal taste, not your taste in clothes. Hey, wait-”

Kris grabbed the bag of clothes from the cashier and hurried away, Minseok jogging at his side to keep up with his long strides. They made it all the way back to the car before Minseok couldn’t contain himself anymore. “What would you say if Yixing appeared in front of you right now?”

Kris could sense it coming, but was powerless to stop it. “Don’t.”

“There-wolf!” Minseok dissolved into another fit of giggles, and Kris shoved him into the side of a nearby truck, setting off its alarm. They both scrambled frantically into the car, Minseok laughing hysterically as Kris peeled out of the parking lot. “What if Yixing is a Zen Buddhist?”

It was a weird feeling, having someone laugh at him and not immediately stabbing them in the throat. “Stop it.”

“Aware-wolf!”

_Weird,_ Kris thought to himself, _but not horrible._


	23. The Family You Choose IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know its been forever - but thanks for sticking with me! My dissertation has been hogging all my time lately, but soon I'll be free! Hope you enjoy :)

                                          

There was a spring in Kyungsoo’s step as he skipped up the hill towards the village community center. Clouds hung dark and low in the sky as the wind gusted through the village in chilly bursts. The wind was so strong that the fishermen had all returned early from the sea, unwilling to risk their boats on the choppy waves. Kyungsoo had offered his help in tying down the boats, but he’d been shooed away from the docks to join the rest of village in preparing for their stormy weather tradition: barbecue party!

Kyungsoo picked up his pace, the wind at his back giving wings to his feet. It felt like years since he’d had proper food, meat to chew, the birthright handed down from his carnivorous ancestors. Panting as the hill grew steeper, he didn’t even begrudge the villagers their penchant for winding, impossible paths, because each deep lungful brought hints of spicy, juicy, sizzling meat. Once he reached the hill’s summit, he took a moment outside the door to rub the drool from the corners of his mouth with his sleeve. He couldn’t seem too eager or the ahjummas would tease him mercilessly, and he had no patience when it came to food.

“Yeollie’s chingu!” The elderly woman stationed by the door whisked his coat away as soon as he entered, and he bobbed his head in greeting. He didn’t even feel slighted— ‘Yeollie chingu’, ‘Dock Boy’, ‘Tofu Belly’ —any name was fine with him as long as they fed him meat. He glanced around, quickly skimming over the baduk-playing older men scattered about the fringes of the large room. Of far more interest were the women were clustered in the center of the room, ringing a sea of glistening white plates piled with colorful _banchan_ and leaves of all shades of green. In the place of honor, a quartet of indoor grills hissed merrily, their meshed tops laden with browning slices of glory. Children zipped around the perimeter like screeching satellites, trading haphazard slaps in a lawless game of tag. Kyungsoo frowned when he didn’t find Chanyeol stoking the knee-high chaos as he’d expected. Instead, he’d been absorbed into the ahjumma circle, firmly sandwiched between two of the younger women, a little boy curled up in his lap. Kyungsoo’s lips pursed in irritation as one the young moms tried to feed Chanyeol a lettuce wrap that was half the size of his face. Chanyeol leaned away from the _ssam_ like it was made of radioactive waste, his lips zipped tightly together, shaking his head vehemently. His eyes landed on Kyungsoo and widened, transmitting a desperate plea for rescue. 

Without hesitation, Kyungsoo charged across the room and jammed his foot between their tightly pressed shoulders. 

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, stomping downward. The woman jerked away with a yelp just as Kyungsoo’s foot plowed into the space where her hand had been resting. Kyungsoo dropped to one knee and wedged himself into the narrow opening he’d created, granting the stunned woman a faceful of High Quality Rear View. She scooted backward, scandalized, her hands flying up in surprised reflex. Kyungsoo snagged her lettuce wrap as it arced through the air, and plopped onto his butt in his new seat, folding his legs in satisfaction. He stuffed the _ssam_ into his mouth in one giant bite, nearly choking on the entire cow the woman managed to stuff into the crunchy lettuce leaves. The young mom straightened her blouse primly, dusting off her hands before firing off a look that could have melted granite. Kyungsoo returned the death-glare with a triumphant grin full of green.

Left to his own devices, Chanyeol began briskly tossing rice and kimchi into a leaf, adding a dab of red pepper paste before expertly rolling it all into a tight morsel. A neat, beautiful _ssam_ by anyone’s standard, except, tragically, blasphemously— there had been no meat. As it disappeared into Chanyeol’s mouth, Kyungsoo couldn’t even protest; he was effectively gagged by a giant ball of food. Instead, he snatched the next wrap out of Chanyeol’s hand and held it as far away from him as he could, wagging a finger threateningly in his face to get his point across. With a glint in his eye, Chanyeol looped his own finger in Kyungsoo’s shirt collar and twirled it slowly, the fabric winding around his knuckle, reeling him in until their faces were inches away. Kyungsoo froze, his breath hitching in his throat, trapped like a fly in molasses. He was suddenly, acutely, aware of the pound of Chanyeol’s heartbeat, so much steadier than his own racing pulse, the measured rise and fall of his wide chest, his light touch of his fingers…. 

Kyungsoo squeaked, flailing as Chanyeol’s fingers inched up his forearm, but to no avail. The uselessly long-armed orangutan peeled the lettuce wrap from Kyungsoo’s fist with laughable ease. His collar still held hostage, he could only watch in dismay as Chanyeol’s magnificent jawline crunched down on abomination after meatless abomination. Chewing sadly, Kyungsoo mourned the loss of deliciousness that could have been.

“That’s already four kids the teacher had to send home,” one of the women complained, her raised voice wresting Kyungsoo’s attention from Chanyeol’s Adam’s apple. “Eungi’s mom said he had a fever of 102 when she picked him up. She took him straight to the hospital in the city.”

“What did the doctor say?” someone asked anxiously, and all of the women held their breath in anticipation.

“Probably the flu,” came the reply, and the gathered parents sighed in weary resignation.

“If four of the kids have it—” one mom lamented.

“Everybody has it,” another finished.

Kyungsoo’s head whipped down to the adorable plague carrier sleeping in Chanyeol’s lap, noticing for the first time the flush in the boy’s cherub cheeks and the feverish sheen of sweat across his forehead. With mounting horror, his gaze darted to the child’s mother, whose bare hands had so recently cocooned the wrap he’d been enjoying. She caught his eye, her glare sharpening into a victorious smirk. The beef turned to ash on his tongue, and Kyungsoo’s lips quivered, his mouth flooding with saliva as he fought down his gag reflex. He would show no weakness, even if it meant swallowing germ-infested paste.

Like a gift from above, the outer door of the community center slammed open, the percussive bang turning heads. Kyungsoo hastily spat the remnants of the tainted lettuce wrap into a napkin and shoved it under Chanyeol’s leg as two fishermen staggered into the common room. The younger was limping heavily, barely held upright by his partner, his pants leg ripped to shreds below the knee, the tattered fabric dark and dripping. A third man slunk in like a shadow behind them as the first droplets of rain pattered against the roof. His hunched shoulders screamed ‘guilty’ to Kyungsoo, but no-one else spared him a second glance.

The wounded fisherman was quickly surrounded by concerned villagers as his supporter lowered him carefully to the ground. The man’s wife sank to her knees, trembling and speechless, aghast at the blood oozing across the smooth floor. Her friends pestered the other fisherman with a frenzy of questions in her stead, but the grizzled older man ignored them. He pulled out a small pocketknife and quickly sliced away his companion’s bloodied pants leg, revealing a pulpy mess, jagged shards of white bone stark against the mangled flesh. The sight drew a gasp from the onlookers and Kyungsoo to his feet, his first responder training kicking in. He stepped towards the crowd, but something caught his ankle. Kyungsoo turned, surprised at the obstruction, to find Chanyeol holding him down, shaking his head desperately. The message was clear: don’t get involved. Hiding in plain sight only worked if they were unremarkable and easily forgotten, and that meant the drifter dock boy couldn’t suddenly start acting like a big-city cop.

“Bandages! Bring something so we can stop the bleeding!” the old man demanded hoarsely, and one of the older kids dashed past them clutching an armful of cleaning towels.

Kyungsoo twisted free of Chanyeol’s hold without a second thought, shouldering his way into the knot of people surrounding the injured man. He wasn’t going to let a man bleed to death if he could help, no matter how much unwanted attention it caused. They couldn’t stay in this village forever anyway. He relaxed slightly as the old fisherman began wrapping the offered towels around the crushed leg, creating a pressure dressing with sure, practiced motions.

“Damn boat snapped its mooring line when we tried to beach it.” The man paused in his ministrations to rap his partner on the forehead, leaving a bloody fingerprint. “Fool should’ve gotten out of the way.”

“I tried!” His eyes leaking tears from the pain, the wounded man pointed a weak, shaking finger toward their third companion, who was doing his best impression of wallpaper in the corner. “But he pushed me off the pier!”

Between one breath and the next, the wounded man’s wife was on her feet, barrelling toward the accused with a metal chopstick glinting in her raised fist. Kyungsoo chased after her and grabbed her raised wrist from behind, deftly slipping the chopstick from her grip. With a frustrated scream, she wrenched her wrist from his grip, and he let her go. She was unarmed now and justifiably angry, holding her back would only escalate the situation.

“Shame on you, Park Minha! ” The woman ripped her slipper off and slapped the cowering man across the face with the sole. He ducked into a crouch, protecting his head from the rain of stinging blows as she vented her wrath. “With a spineless excuse for a father like you, no wonder your son is sick.”

“I could hear the line failing,” the man tried to explain, ducking another slap. “I was just trying to get out of the way! He would’ve done the same thing!” 

The furious wife aimed a kick, but Kyungsoo stepped between them, blocking her target. “I think you’ve made your point,” he murmured, putting a little steel in his voice to make his own position clear. Her lip curled in thwarted rage, her slipper crumpling in her pale-knuckled grip. Kyungsoo eyed her carefully, ready for another attack, but she simply spat at the cowering man’s feet, and walked away. The accused man uncovered his head, his eyes questing hesitantly around the room for support. One by one, the other villagers turned their backs on him pointedly, until only Kyungsoo was left. 

“Everything happened so fast,” the fisherman whimpered, his hands clasping together in an unconscious bid for sympathy. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

In the past, Kyungsoo would’ve helped the guy to his feet, given him a ride to the police station, and offered him a cup of coffee. Jongdae was best at chasing down criminals, but Kyungsoo was the one who listened. The forsaken, the wronged, the unhinged, the innocent, he gave them all a fair chance to be heard. But, as he met the fisherman’s pleading gaze, Kyungsoo didn’t feel the usual twinge of empathy. Instead, there was just…indifference. With surprisingly little effort, he took a step away, and the fisherman sagged miserably, the life draining out of him. Like a switch had been flipped, the atmosphere of the room lightened. Spirited chatter washed over Kyungsoo as he threaded his way to the edge the small crowd— speculation about the severity of the wounded man’s injury, worry about the fishermen still outdoors, arrangements for the looming flu outbreak. Words flooded the room, but there wasn’t a single mention of the ostracized man. Kyungsoo threw a quick look over his shoulder, but the fisherman was slumped against the wall, staring blankly into space, ignored.

As he broke free of the crowd, Kyungsoo spotted Chanyeol, still sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, attempting to tend to the forgotten barbecue. As Kyungsoo wandered closer, he noticed the plates within a neat semi-circle had been picked bare, a glistening ceramic moat separating Chanyeol from the abundance of side dishes and meat sitting untouched. The tall boy would extend an arm just far enough to reach a piece of food, constantly glancing down to check that the motion hadn’t woken the child still curled in his lap. After a moment of bemused observation, Kyungsoo realized he was effectively pinned in place, trapped by his own compassion.

“I just stopped a guy from getting stabbed in the eye with a chopstick.” Kyungsoo dropped into a sitting position beside Chanyeol, purposefully jostling his knee for a reaction. He knew it was petty, but the earlier confrontation had left him feeling restless and annoyed.

Chanyeol stilled, his chopsticks hovering above a nearly empty plate of cubed radish. “Congratulations,” he said through his teeth, his gaze flickering down to his sleeping charge. “Now go away.”

“I didn’t save him for any particular reason,” Kyungsoo rambled. Airing out his thoughts was helping him settle his prickly feelings. “Sharp weapon, unarmed person, stop!” He mimed the wrist-grab in midair. “It was just instinct.”

Chanyeol bristled slightly as his chopsticks lowering to delicately pincer a radish. “Fascinating.”

“I thought I’d feel guilty about leaving him behind,” Kyungsoo rambled, heedless of the warning signs. “But, he kinda deserved it. He made his choice, now he has to live with the consequences. Justice, minus the law and order.”

Chanyeol slapped his chopsticks down with a exasperated huff. “Was he just supposed to let himself be crushed?” he demanded.

Kyungsoo blinked at him, his brain scrambling to fill in the blanks. “Who?”

“He was just trying to survive, so he deserves to get stabbed?” 

Kyungsoo straightened, recognizing the defensiveness in Chanyeol’s tone. “Maybe deserve was the wrong word,” he allowed, and a feeling of deja vu settled over the conversation. “He hurt someone, so it’s only natural that the victim’s family would retaliate.”

“So he was just supposed to lay down and die?” 

Chanyeol’s face melted in disappointment, and Kyungsoo’s heart squirmed as he tried to explain himself for what felt like the hundredth time. “You can’t trade someone else’s life for your own.” 

“Why not?” Chanyeol protested, his face darkening. “What makes their life so much more important than mine?” 

“That’s what sociopaths say!” The words blurted out before Kyungsoo’s brain even processed the thought. “Why can’t you understand how wrong you are?!”

Chanyeol’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, orange sparks glinting in their depths. “You think you’re different?”

Kyungsoo’s throat went dry. It wasn’t deja vu— they’d had this conversation before. Different words had been used, countless variations on a common theme, but one thing had always been the same. Chanyeol had been in leg irons, and Kyungsoo had been on the law-abiding side of bulletproof glass, high on his moral horse. ‘Life is precious.’ ‘Everyone’s life is worth the same.’ ‘There’s no justification for murder.’ He’d spent years parroting those words, trying to convince the unrepentant convict of his errant ways. Then fate had dropped Chanyeol’s life into his hands, like a test. Save him or let him die? The prison thugs, the burning building, the shadowy assassins, the kill squad, the hordes of police— they were all the same question, just rephrased and repackaged. Even when innocents had been caught in the crossfire, the decision had always felt obvious. For the first time, Kyungsoo wondered if maybe fate kept asking him the same question because he kept getting the answer wrong. 

He broke eye contact first, a thorny knot of hypocrisy twisting painfully in his chest as he scrambled to his feet. He made a beeline toward the crowd of people, elbowing his way into the center as he tried to outrun his thoughts. He needed a task, something to focus on while his mind sorted itself out. 

“Can I help?” Kyungsoo asked, an edge of desperation leaking into his voice. 

“I was sewing soldiers back together before you were born,” the elderly fisherman replied, his gnarled fingers flying as he tied a tourniquet around the wounded man’s thigh. His task completed, he leaned back, surveying Kyungsoo from head to toe. “The men at the docks are short three pairs of hands.” 

“I’ll go,” Kyungsoo said hurriedly, relief rushing through him as he jumped to his feet. Anything to quiet the chorus of judgemental voices in his head.

The older man glanced up at him, his eyebrows angling in skepticism. “The wind might carry you away.” 

Kyungsoo’s nostrils flared as he squared his shoulders, joints crackling as he rolled his neck from side to side. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Equipped with the injured man’s rain gear, Kyungsoo stepped out into the frigid, blasting wind and immediately lost his footing. The wind caught his raincoat like a parachute, dragging him backwards several lengths before he whisked the coat inwards, hugging it close to his body. Without the billowing fabric to fight against, he leaned into the wind, regaining his lost ground, step by step. The worst of the wind died down once Kyungsoo left the hilltop for the relative shelter of the village, the walls of the houses breaking the powerful currents into the occasional gust and whirlwind eddies. Rainwater sluiced down the streets in miniature rivers, and he sloshed through them, heedless of the cold soaking through his boots.

Kyungsoo was so focused on navigating the storm-flooded streets that he didn’t realize he’d left the village until his boots scuffed against wet sand. The docks weren’t visible yet, hidden by the curve of the coastline, but the shouts of the struggling fishermen carried clearly on the wind. He trudged down the beach, passing by smaller fishing boats that had already been dragged ashore and strapped down. As he approached the dock, he could see the largest boat, an 85-foot trawler, still bucking wildly on the windswept waves. Only a single mooring line connected it to the pier, the other lines dangled freely, their frayed ends whipping through the air. Men leapt for the torn ropes whenever a swell brought the boat close enough, only to have the sea wrench the vessel from their control each time they tried to tow it to land. They were fighting a losing battle— anyone who tried to fight the waves and hold on to the boat would find themselves dragged into the churning tide or crushed against the unyielding pier. But if they left the boat unrestrained, it would destroy itself against the pier or snap its final line and become another storm-tossed shipwreck. Kyungsoo flinched as the ship slammed into the dock again, the impact from its steel hull ringing hollowly through the air. As the waves pulled the boat away once more, a fresh set of dents glintingalong its exterior, Kyungsoo firmed his resolve. He couldn’t change his past mistakes, but he could try to make up for them, starting with saving that boat and the families that depended on it.

He hoisted himself onto the pier’s raised deck, and snagged the flapping edge of first raincoat he encountered. The deck hand whirled toward the sudden tug, almost losing his balance on the slippery planks. Kyungsoo steadied him before he could fall, and the young man, still wearing a school uniform under his coat, acknowledged him with a grateful nod.

“How do I help?!” Kyungsoo shouted over the wind, shielding his eyes against the driving, sand-gritty rain. “Tell me what to do!”

The young man flung an arm towards the boat as it reached the end of its line, first rolling, then sliding sideways, picking up speed as it rode the wave back toward the pier. “Grab something and hold on!” 

The whole group dropped into a crouch wherever they were standing, bracing themselves for the impact. Kyungsoo spun in circles, hurriedly searching for a safe point before giving up and wrapping his arms around the closest mooring pillar. The boat rammed into the dock with a deep, anguished chime that thrummed through Kyungsoo’s skull. All around him, torn mooring lines slithered across the pier like thick kraken tentacles. The dock swam beneath his feet as he lunged for the closest one, that disorienting chime still ringing in his ears. He’d barely gotten a grip on the slick, heavy rope when it began sliding through his hands, the waves threatening to steal the boat away.

Kyungsoo tightened his grasp, his fingers clamping down, nails digging into the rope fibers. The line snapped taut with a sudden, breathtaking force that yanking him, stumbling, towards the edge of the pier. He dug in his heels and skidded to a stop, hauling in the slack on his rope before the boat could travel further. Time slowed to a honey-like crawl as the surrounding fishermen pulled with all of their might, trying to reclaim their livelihood from the sea. An involuntary growl rumbled from Kyungsoo’s throat as the sea-softened wood beneath his feet began to splinter, and he dug deeper. The boat rolled dangerously, the masts and rigging drooping low above their heads as the keel was dragged outward by the undertow. A high-pitched squeal tore through the air, the boat’s hull stressed to its limits by loads it wasn’t designed to support.

Kyungsoo felt the other fishermen lose their holds as a sudden jolt, the shock of the lost support wrenching through his shoulders and lancing, white hot, through his lower back. The rope rasped through his hands, scraping the flesh raw, but the prospect of defeat surged adrenaline through his veins, reducing the pain to a dull irritant. He bore down harder, wringing the rope so tightly water welled up between his fingers. Tension hummed down the line as the boat strained against him, buzzing against his gritted teeth and rattling his vision. Kyungsoo replanted his feet, a roar of defiance ripping from his lungs as he hauled the boat toward the pier, hand over hand. The boat reared rebelliously against his efforts, the hull wailing, caught between his unwavering line and the relentless undertow. Then the tide returned.

The boat slammed into the pier, tossing Kyungsoo on his back to the deck. He wheezed for air, but managed to stagger upright, the rope gripped tightly in his hands. Dizziness swirled the sky into the horizon as the rush of adrenaline wore off just as quickly as it had taken hold. The waves swelled again, but he held his rope taut, securing the boat against the pier as the other fishermen raced to claim their lines. The other men began backing off of the pier, fighting the strong tide to drag the boat towards the beach. Kyungsoo moved with them as best he could, pouring his entire being into each excruciating slow step, his muscles beginning to quiver with the exertion, his breath harsh and ragged in his chest as sweat and saltwater stung in his eyes. The beach was only a feet away, but it may as well have been miles.

Fairy lights danced around the edges of his vision, and Kyungsoo’s knees hit the dock before he realized he was falling. The rope whistled through his slack fingers, and the men ashore yelled in alarm as the escaping vessel dragged them into the waves. Shaking off the overwhelming fatigue, Kyungsoo drove his foot against one of the pier’s steel columns, fighting his line rigid once more. He tried to regain his feet to resume his journey to shore, but his mutinous limbs wouldn’t obey. He braced himself against the support, every fiber of his being concentrating on keeping his rope from slipping. 

Panic niggled at the back of his mind as the burning fatigue in his legs and arms began yielding to jelly-like numbness. Help, he wanted to call out, but there was no-one else who could hold this line. More than anything, he wanted to let go of the rope, but he couldn’t unsee the fishermen that had the lines wrapped around their limbs or coiled around their waists. They were risking their lives to save this boat, and trusting him to do his part. If he let go now, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Chanyeol had asked him if he was different, and he felt like he knew the right answer now. He would never sacrifice other people just to save himself. Even without a badge, he would protect people who couldn’t protect themselves - that was his job.

Kyungsoo closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. The rain slackened as he focused, searching for a last reserve, an untapped reservoir of last ditch effort. His hands twitched with cramps, the strain of latching onto the rope taking its toll. Just a one step at a time, he told himself. I can do this. I have to. The cold and wet had settled into his limbs, and numbness tingled in his fingertips, conspiring with the muscle cramps to weaken his hold. The rope was beginning to slip. I can’t do this. 

A familiar warmth enveloped him, and his eyes popped open in surprise to find a pair of long, muscular arms overlapping his own, sharing the load on the rope. A bubbly heat bloomed in the pit of his stomach, spilling steadiness into his legs as it spread, banishing the aches and numbness, even relaxing the cramps in his hands,. Energy fizzed eagerly through him, tightening his joints, winding him to his feet like a clockwork soldier. Belatedly, Kyungsoo remembered he was holding a sixty-ton boat, and he wrapped the rope dazedly around his arm and forearm. The pull of the boat felt no stronger than a helium balloon. He’d never smoked before, but if this was what it was like to be high, Kyungsoo could understand the appeal.

“How are you doing this?” Kyungsoo picked up his feet experimentally, marvelling at the floaty effortlessness of it. Chanyeol let go of the rope, moving from behind him and into Kyungsoo’s field of view. His irises smoldered red as rain steamed off of him in hissing curliques. 

“I thought you could use some help,” Chanyeol told him. 

Kyungsoo’s knees evaporated, and his shoulder thumped against the side of the ship. He coughed awkardly, trying to make the swoon seem like a casual lean, but one hand ended up behind his head and the other somewhere between his ribcage and his hip. Weariness and over-exertion, he commanded himself to believe. 

“So you came all this way?” He tried for breezy nonchalance, but it came off as punch-drunk and winded. Pull yourself together, Soo.

Chanyeol smiled crookedly, one cheek dimpling. “I can’t win an argument if you die in the middle.” 

Kyungsoo was not emotional about this. He was not. He let out a chirpy squeak of air that was supposed to be laugh, then he shut his mouth and leaned into the rope. His feet grated against the decking, wood shaving off under the force of each step as the boat scraped forward, bit by bit. Chanyeol hovered beside him, his hands ghosting across Kyungsoo’s shoulder or down his spine whenever he paused to take a breath. Each featherlight touch brought a new jolt of toasty energy and sent his heartbeat singing in his ears. Kyungsoo lost all track of time, only realizing his task was done when the ship’s keel scraped against the rocky shore, sand piling around its edges as it ground to a halt. 

Lightning crackled in the sky above them, the weary cheers of the fishermen surrounding him drowned out by the sudden return of the freezing rain. Kyungsoo stripped off his coat, letting the rain soak into his skin because he was roasting. Someone pulled the rope from his hands, and Kyungsoo let it go without argument, staggering away from the pier. He stood with his face upturned, mouth wide open trying to catch the icy droplets pattering against his overheated face. He was thirsty beyond belief, but another little jolt would give him enough energy to help the fishermen tie down the ship before the worst of the storm arrived. Chanyeol’s arm wrapped around his shoulder as if summoned, and Kyungsoo braced himself for another tingly, stomach-flipping rush, only to find himself buried face-first in the taller man’s chest as his traitorous knees buckled.

“Mmph,” was all he managed to say before the whistling darkness sucked him in.

Awareness returned in snippets— the sound of someone’s labored breathing, a gust of wind brushing something soft and ticklish into his face, cold pinpricks of rain soaking into his back. He peeled open his eyes, blinking slowly as the blurry images coalesced in his muzzy brain. Floating faces. Posters, plastered on a wall. He was moving past a wall full of movie posters. Moving because he was being carried. On someone’s back. The wind gusted again as they passed by a break in the wall, and silvery-white tendrils fluttered into Kyungsoo’s nose, drawing out a sneeze.

“Ew. Don’t snot on me.” Fully awake now, Kyungsoo sniffled noisily into Chanyeol’s ear, and the latter tossed his head at the wet sound. “I will drop you off this cliff.”

“If I go, you’re coming with me.” Kyungsoo folded his arms around Chanyeol’s neck as he trudged up the steep hill to the community center, the light from its windows yellow and welcoming in the stormy darkness. Too soon they reached the top of the hill, and Chanyeol’s hands loosened on his thighs. Kyungsoo slid stiffly to the ground, his overtaxed muscles quivering jerkily as soon as his feet touched the ground. He didn’t bother trying to fight the wobbly feeling and simply sank to the ground, grateful for the skinny patch of dryness under the building’s eaves. Chanyeol stood over him, blocking the worst of the wind.

“You look terrible.”

Kyungsoo nodded wearily, swallowing against the scratchiness in his throat. “I feel terrible.” He lifted his hands, inspecting the rope-treads worn bloody and ragged through his palms. Now that he could see the damage clearly, it started to sting in earnest. Once he noticed the pain in his hands, other parts of his abused body began clamoring for attention in a cacophony of aches. Watching the rain steam off of Chanyeol’s shoulders, it occurred to Kyungsoo that the arsonist would make an excellent hot tub companion. He could even pitch the idea as physical therapy.

“Why didn’t you just let go of the rope?” Chanyeol had one hand on his hip, but his other fist knocked absently against his thigh, betraying his worry. “If I hadn’t come, you would have been dragged off the pier.”

“You wouldn’t have jumped in to save me?” Kyungsoo asked jokingly, but he sobered when Chanyeol’s gaze flickered away uncomfortably. “That’s okay.” The assurance popped out automatically, and Kyungsoo was surprised to realize how much he meant it. “I’d pick you, too.”

Bewilderment flashed across Chanyeol’s face, clouding into suspicion as Kyungsoo patted the spot next to him in invitation. Seconds rolled past and but he stayed standing, his lips puckered into a dubious pout, clearly trying to figure out Kyungsoo’s angle. Kyungsoo switched tactics, letting out a pitiful groan as he feebly attempted to climb to his feet. It didn’t require much acting, and it worked like a charm. Chanyeol hissed, pushing him back into a sitting position. He dithered for a moment longer in the rain, then hesitantly folded himself into a sitting position at Kyungsoo’s side, tucking his long legs into the shelter of the eaves. 

“You’re supposed to be disappointed,” Chanyeol scolded. Kyungsoo chuckled at the irony, confusing him even further. “You’re supposed to swear at me, or storm off, or—” his hand tapped his chest emphatically, “or call me a sociopath.”

Kyungsoo winced at the term, regretting that he’d ever used it. No regard for others, volatile, unrepentant, devoid of emotional attachments — reducing the Virus to a laundry list of dysfunctions had made him an easy target for the rage of a grieving public, but it had always bothered Kyungsoo how easily Chanyeol accepted the labels. The person he knew was lonely, unpredictable, and more than a little damaged— but he wasn’t half the monster he thought he was. 

Ignoring the leaden achiness in his body, Kyungsoo rearranged himself so they were facing each other. Chanyeol shrank back slightly, his expression guarded, and Kyungsoo bit his lip, trying to find the right words. “Before, I said that stuff—” he started, then shook his head. “I was wrong,” he tried again. Some of the tension in Chanyeol’s shoulders drained away, and Kyungsoo forged on. “At the pier, I wanted to let go of the rope.” He stared at the ragged tracks worn into his palms, shame heating his cheeks. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, so I held on for as long as I could, but I wasn’t ready to die for those men. If you hadn’t showed up when you did...”

Chanyeol rested his elbows on his knees, the shift bringing him to Kyungsoo’s eye level. “You were fighting a force of nature. Nobody could have blamed you for letting go.”

“I would’ve blamed me,” Kyungsoo admitted, meeting his eyes. “Even if my hands were ripped off, it was still my choice to pick up that rope in the first place. I let those men trust me.” 

“But, you won!” Chanyeol’s head tilted to one side, puzzled. “So why were you wrong?” 

“We won,” Kyungsoo corrected. “If I had been alone,” he shrugged helplessly, “it would have been me or them, and I’m not confident I would have chosen them. I thought we were different, so I was wrong.”

Chanyeol raised a finger to object, his mouth working soundlessly before he subsided a reluctant sigh.

Oddly pleased by the lack of response, Kyungsoo repeated, “But that’s okay, because I figured it out. If it comes down to you or me, I’ll pick you.”

“Why?!” The question exploded out of Chanyeol, startling Kyungsoo with its vehemence. He probed his eyebrows cautiously, surprised they hadn’t been singed off. He’d expected gratefulness, but the arsonist was staring at him as if he’d sprouted horns.

“When I was younger, my mom and I played a guessing game every night,” Kyungsoo explained. “If we both fell into the river and there was only one life-vest, who would she choose? If we were being chased by a tiger, and one of us had to get eaten, who would it be? I always guessed that she’d save me, and I was always right.”

Kyungsoo paused, holding his breath when Chanyeol’s eyes abruptly unfocused, drifting to a point over Kyungsoo’s shoulder. Tiny orange flamelets shivered over his skin and left faint, blackened tracks in the weave of his sweater. Careful not to make any sudden moves, Kyungsoo stretched out his hand and gingerly rested it atop Chanyeol’s knee. Anything that eroded Chanyeol’s control like this couldn’t be a pleasant memory, but a meltdown right now wouldn’t be healthy for either of them. To his relief, the flamelets guttered out at the contact, and Chanyeol blinked back into the present with a shaky gasp, a tear leaking down his cheek. He swabbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, frowning at the wetness he found there. “Sorry,” he muttered, burying his face in his hands. Kyungsoo let out his own breath as he leaned back, but didn’t push for details. The key to unraveling knots, even tightly wound, secretive knots, was patience. 

“When I was eight, I got chased into traffic,” he carried on with his story, as if there had been no interruption. “I could have made it across the street, but I tripped over my own feet and fell right into the path of a bus. Some older kid appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of me like this,” Kyungsoo spread his arms wide to demonstrate. “He risked his life to save me.”When Chanyeol peeked at him through his fingers, he prompted, “Guess who saved me.”

“Jongdae,” came the muffled reply. 

Kyungsoo swatted Chanyeol’s leg irritably, and regretted it instantly, the rope burns in his palms stinging anew. “At least act like you don’t know!” 

“You’ve told me this story a thousand times.”

“I’m trying to make a point.” Kyungsoo grumbled, blowing on his hand. “He was always around, but I never questioned it. I just assumed that all older brothers followed their _dongsaengs_ around in case they got into trouble. Being friends with Yoondae meant Jongdae came as part of the deal.”

“Doesn’t sound like deal.” Kyungsoo feinted a backhand at Chanyeol, but he batted it away, beginning to shake off the old pain Kyungsoo had accidentally dredged up. 

“My point,” Kyungsoo continued doggedly, “is that I’ve never had to worry about saving myself, because I’ve always had someone to protect me.Now I’m going to be that person for you.”

Chanyeol sat upright, absorbing the promise, and Kyungsoo waited expectantly for the emotional floodgates to burst open.

“I’m older than you,” Chanyeol said, completely ruining the moment.

“You have no proof of that,” Kyungsoo retorted. “I’m your hyung until you produce a birth certificate.”

Chanyeol started to protest, but Kyungsoo caught the back of his neck and pulled him in until their foreheads touched, and they were breathing each other’s oxygen. “I’ll protect you, so you don’t have to do it yourself. That means no more fires. Understand?”

Chanyeol’s eyes mouth pulled to one side stubbornly, so Kyungsoo head-butted him. “Understand?”

“Fine!” Chanyeol relented, pulling free. “Ow! No more fires!” He glared at Kyungsoo as he rubbed the reddened spot, but he couldn’t hide the delighted dimple in his cheek.


	24. Obligations We Inherit VII

                                          

Teasing out Kyungsoo’s trail of breadcrumbs was a test of Jongdae’s patience. The NIS quarantine analysts had based their search around Kyungsoo’s incendiary partner-in-crime, expecting the arsonist to return to his old habits. Jongdae had skimmed through their files for insights, but their so-called psychological profile was contradictory nonsense. The profile had been cobbled together from Interpol reports during the Virus manhunt, militia briefings from failed attempts to neutralize Phoenix, and police transcripts of Kyungsoo’s interviews with Yeol. Each painted a wildly different picture, yet they’d somehow been stitched together into an textbook portrait of a remorseless sociopath with an obsession with fire. Jongdae scrapped the profile in frustration and started his search from scratch.

Polite convenience store bun heists, thefts from roadside clothing vendors, stolen cars, freshly washed and fueled, parked near cross-country bus stops— taken separately, they were barely crimes at all. Even the descriptions of the culprits varied, sometimes a very tall woman, other times a school-age child in uniform. Without knowing about Kyungsoo’s sticky-fingered adolescence, there was no way to link the incidents to the fugitive pair. But Jongdae had been policing Kyungsoo for nearly two decades. He zoomed in on a grainy CCTV image from a convenience store in the middle of nowhere, picking out Kyungsoo’s features from the gray blob fleeing the scene. 

“Not his best angle,” Baekhyun noted, plopping heavily in to the seat next to him. Jongdae hastily snapped his laptop shut.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in first class?” He rose out of his seat, anxiously searching the aisles of the massive plane. Where Baekhyun appeared, Sarai was sure to follow. If she found out Kyungsoo’s hideout, Jongdae would lose what little leverage he had over the situation.

“The witch is taking her beauty sleep,” Baekhyun said, pulling a lollipop out of his pocket. “She’ll be out for another two hours and forty-three minutes.”

Jongdae relaxed into his seat, eying the skinny young man beside him. “That’s a very specific number.”

“It was a very specific dosage.” Baekhyun slurped noisily on his candy, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Wanna see a magic trick?” He rubbed his hands together slowly in a circular motion. “Watch closely,” he said, the lollipop stick wobbling in the corner of his mouth. “Prepare to have your dreams come true!”

Jongdae suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Are you planning to make yourself disappear?”

Baekhyun threw him a unreadable look, his long fingers weaving together in an intricate pattern. Glittering specks of light danced across Jongdae’s vision, and he blinked, then gasped. Sarai’s phone dangled from Baekhyun’s fingertips, just like... _Holy jeez, this kid is magic._

“And for my final act,” Baekhyun wiggled the phone enticingly, as he slid from his seat to stand in the aisle. “I’ll disappear.”

“Wait!” Jongdae lunged across the empty space and seized Baekhyun’s wrist, peeling the phone from his hand. As a rule, he didn’t trust slippery, secretive people, but his instincts were screaming that there was something important on that phone. He tapped the dark screen, sighing when a prompt for a retina scan blinked up at him. Of course. Only pure-minded altruists gave away things for free, and Baekhyun’s motives were as pure as swamp water.

Baekhyun sidled back into the seat, leaning on Jongdae’s armrest. “I have a proposal,” he said in a strawberry-scented whisper.

“Let’s hear it.” 

“We ditch the babysitter when we land, and then I’ll unlock the phone.”

Jongdae barked a laugh. “Sarai will rip the beating heart from my chest when she finds us.” He shook his head and tossed the phone back to Baekhyun. “No deal.” 

Jongdae settled back in his seat, waiting as Baekhyun pouted down at the phone in his lap. If Baekhyun just wanted to escape his chaperone for a wild night in Seoul, he didn’t need Jongdae’s help. He appeared and disappeared all the time, and Sarai and the director simply shrugged it off with a level of weary indifference that could only be born from long practice. He’d come to Jongdae this time because he was planning something risky. 

Baekhyun tugged at his bottom lip, then held the phone close to his face. He held out the phone wordlessly as the lock screen flashed green in acceptance and scrolled away to reveal a map. Jongdae leaned over the tiny screen, squinting as he recognized Korea’s eastern coastline. A red bio-hazard symbol was pinned over a small cluster of villages, but before he could read the town names, Baekhyun pulled the phone away, re-locking it with a swipe of his finger. 

“We land in three hours.” Baekhyun stood, leaving the locked, useless phone behind. “When you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He tipped a salute with his lollipop as he backed away, and Jongdae’s heart sank. 

Maybe Sarai didn’t know what she had. Maybe those villages were the site of a random _vivus_ outbreak, completely unrelated to Kyungsoo at all. Maybe that biohazard symbol was just Baekhyun’s ploy to get something he wanted, a lucky shot in the dark, and there was no threat at all. Maybe the militia was already on its way to reduce those villages to dust in their single-minded quest to eliminate Phoenix. Jongdae couldn’t risk Kyungsoo’s life on maybes, and Baekhyun knew it.

He found Baekhyun stretched out on a full-length seatbed, pretending to sleep, surrounded by lollipop wrappers. Sarai was lying still as death in the next seat, a half-empty glass of orange juice on her tray table. Jongdae dropped the phone on top of Baekhyun’s smug face, deriving dark satisfaction from his yelp of surprise. 

“Stick by me when we go through customs,” Jongdae told him. “Once we’re clear of the airport, you and I will have words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finished my dissertation! thank you all for being so patient~~


	25. Obligations We Inherit VIII

Jongdae’s plan was simple. He would behave as if all was normal. Baekhyun would pull his vanishing act in the crowded chaos just before the customs checkpoint. Sarai would stop to look for him, and while she was distracted, Jongdae would go through the checkpoint and wait for Baekhyun to perform his sneaky voodoo and join him. It was supposed to be simple. Of course, it fell apart immediately.  
Baekhyun and Sarai were waiting for Jongdae when he stepped off of the plane. Sarai looked terrible, her normal glower enhanced by grayish-blue bruises under her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. She was leaning heavily on her suitcase, and Baekhyun  had one arm tucked into hers. A casual observer would see a less-than-enthused young man supporting his airsick companion. Except Baekhyun wasn’t the nurturing, supportive type. As Jongdae joined them, Sarai pushed herself upright, and there was flash of silver around her wrist as she adjusted her sleeve. _Handcuffs_ , Jongdae realized. _Fantastic_.   
“What took you so long?” she grumbled, her words slightly slurred. Before Jongdae could whip out a witty reference to the literal horde that had been between him and airplane exit, Sarai hobbled away, using her suitcase like a walker, dragging Baekhyun by the hand like a reticient child. Jongdae shuffled along behind them, shortening his steps so he wouldn’t outpace Sarai. She was clearly struggling, sweat beading her brow, her lips pressed into a thin line of suffering. At the first restroom they passed, Sarai ground to a halt, casting a longing glance at the door.  
“I can handle Baekhyun for a while if you need to take a break,” Jongdae offered, and it was only partially a ploy. He needed to separate them if they were going to escape the airport, but he was also genuinely concerned for Sarai’s wellbeing. “You don’t look well.”  
“Yeah, go dry heave or something,” Baekhyun suggested, unhelpfully. Sarai growled at him, and he added, “ You look like you died on the plane.”  
“I know the difference between falling asleep and being dosed with midazolam,” Sarai replied sourly, tightening her grip until Baekhyun winced. “You’re not leaving my sight until we get to the car.” She resumed her painstaking progress through the airport.   
Behind her back, Jongdae threw an exasperated thumbs up at Baekhyun. _Great job_ , he mouthed, and Baekhyun sniffed and looked away, ignoring him. The crowd around them grew thicker as the corridor funneled all of the travellers to the customs and immigration checkpoint, and Jongdae started using his elbows to avoid being separated from his group. Now would have been the perfect time to enact his plan, but as long as Baekhyun and Sarai were chained together, there was nothing he could do. He briefly entertained the fantasy of wrestling the tiny woman to the floor in the middle of Incheon airport, and rifling through her pockets for the keys to the cuffs. Irritatingly, the scenario kept ending with Sarai killing him in various ways, despite her weakened state. All he could do now was hope that she’d have to undo the cuffs in order to present their passports to immigration. The opportunity would be fleeting, but the plan could still work.  
They worked their way to the front of the snaking line, immigration papers in hand. Jongdae used the time to map out the fastest route to the airport exit. Once Baekhyun vanished, Sarai wouldn’t be distracted for long, and he didn’t want to be around when she realized she’d been ditched. Finally, Sarai was next to be called, and Jongdae waited impatiently for her to release Baekhyun from his captivity. Instead, she checked to make sure the chain of the cuffs was still hidden in her sleeve, and raised a stiff finger at Baekhyun in a wordless warning. Then she gripped his hand tightly and marched towards the waiting immigration officer, no hint of the slouching, poisoned woman who’d been weaving through the terminal. Her competence was infuriating.  
Jongdae was close enough to eavesdrop, parsing out snatches of her conversation over the general hubbub of the crowd.  
“Legal guardian?” the immigration officer gestured toward Baekhyun, who was, surprisingly, just standing. Sarai replied in the affirmative, handing over their passports, one blue, one green, and bundle of forms. Jongdae bounced slightly on his toes, waiting for the officer to notice that the pair were tied by more than just familial bonds. But Sarai kept their linked hands beneath the counter, and Baekhyun was as docile as a lamb, not doing a single thing that would draw attention.    
Despite their innocuous appearance, they managed to attract the notice of one of the guards patrolling the line. The guard murmured something into his radio, his gaze intent on them as they collected their passports and disappeared through the checkpoint to the customs area. After a furtive glance around the immigration hall, the guard followed them to the other side. Jongdae clutched the strap of his backpack, his fingers tightening with sudden anxiety. Danger. He could feel it in his bones. He hastened to the next immigration officer that beckoned, answering the standard questions absently, his focus on the too-interested guard. Maybe the guard had just been doing his job, but Jongdae’s gut said otherwise.  
“Wait just a moment , Detective,” the immigration officer said, and Jongdae blinked as he beckoned another of the patrolling guards over. The officer handed the guard his passport, and Jongdae’s heart plummeted. First, a too-interested guard following Sarai and Baekhyun, now  he was being detained.This was a trap.  
“Follow me, sir,” the guard said, his tone bored. Jongdae trailed after him reluctantly, his eyes darting to every guard, gauging every possible threat as they walked the length of the immigration hall, heading for an unmarked door. He wasn’t sure what they were after, but if this was an attack, he wouldn’t be taken unawares. The guard held open the door, revealing a short corridor lined with glass-walled interrogation rooms. The door shut behind them with the soft snick of an electronic lock, shutting out the white noise bustle of the immigration hall. Every sound seemed too loud in the sudden silence. The keys on the guard’s hip jangled as he moved toward one of the rooms, already occupied by a person standing with their back to the door. The guard rapped on the glass with his knuckle, three quick notes in rapid succession, and pulled open the door. He waved Jongdae inside the occupied room and pulled out the waiting chair with a rasp. Jongdae sat down cautiously, waiting for the ratcheting clicks of handcuffs, but instead, his passport landed on the metal table beside him with a light smack.  
“All yours, _sunbaenim_ ,” The guard sketched a quick bow before leaving, not even bothering to lock the door. The room’s other occupant turned  then, and Jongdae half-stood in surprise at the familiar face.  
“Team Leader Lee?”   
His former boss snorted, crossing his arms. “You expecting someone else?”  
Jongdae collapsed back into his seat, the tension of the last few minutes draining out of him. “Definitely not you.” He eyed his the older man. “What are you doing here?”  
Team Leader Lee perched on the edge of the table with guttural sigh, scratching the back of his neck. That was a bad sign.  
“Kyungsoo’s parents are missing.”  
Jongdae’s chair clattered to the floor as he shot to his feet. “What do you mean missing?”  
Lee ground his teeth in frustration. “I mean their car was found on the side on the road, still running, with no-one in the driver’s seat.”  
“How long ago?!”  
“Four days,” Lee rubbed his face, the days-old stubble scraping against his callused palms. “We’ve got no ransom demands, no leads, no motive at all  for whoever took them.”  
“And you waited until just now to tell me?” Jongdae’s voice rose to a yell. Kyungsoo’s parents were like his aunt and uncle, there whenever he needed a parent’s advice. They’d stood with him at Yoondae’s funeral.  
Lee’s eyebrows beetled angrily at the accusation. “When was the last time you checked your phone?”  
Jongdae’s hand went to his back pocket automatically before he remembered. He’d given his phone, and that video, to the fugitive outliers. It felt like a lifetime ago, but it had been only a handful of days. “I lost it,” he said finally. “My phone.”  
“Then you’re lucky I flagged you on the watchlist.” Team Leader Lee straightened and tossed Jongdae’s passport at him. “Let’s go, I’ll fill you in on the details on the way to the station.” When Jongdae didn’t follow immediately, he turned back, holding open the door to the immigration hall. “Time’s wasting, kid.”  
“You flagged me,” Jongdae realized. “But I wasn’t traveling alone.”  
Lee frowned. “Were you with that NIS director? The old man?”  
Jongdae shook his head, the old anxiety creeping back. If his team leader didn’t know Sarai and Baekhyun, then that border guard had been sent by someone else. “I have to find my team,” he said quickly, pushing past his old boss. “They’re being followed.”  
 Jongdae ran, following the signs to the baggage claim. They would have gone there for Baekhyun’s suitcase, with any luck they would still be waiting. He slowed for a moment at a status board, skimming the blinking tables for information— the luggage from their flight had already come through. He elbowed his way into the crowd surrounding the conveyor belt assigned to their flight, checking faces, but the ones he sought were nowhere to be seen.  
Jongdae fought his way back free of the crowd and turned in a small circle, breathlessly scanning the waiting area, but there was no trace of the handcuffed pair. The suspicious guard was missing as well. Team Leader caught up to him, wheezing from the run.   
“Not here?” he asked, hands on his hips as he caught his breath.  
Jongdae shook his head, too worked up for words, and headed for the exit. Lee followed, grumbling, but flashed his badge to speed them through last line of customs officials.  
They entered the soaring main terminal, circumventing the line of excited greeters waiting for their loved ones. Jongdae searched the terminal at a jog, his head swiveling back and forth as he looked for the flash of Sarai’s scarf, listened for Baekhyun’s sarcastic whine. His search took him past the taxi stand and finally, _finally_ , he spotted them. Sarai had unlocked their handcuffs, and she was sitting in taxi waiting area, her head resting on the handle of her suitcase. Baekhyun was leaning against the counter, chatting with one of the drivers.  
“Sarai!” Jongdae called out in relief. Sarai raised her head at the sound of her name, and Baekhyun pointed in his direction, as the driver turned. Jongdae froze midstep as he saw the man’s face. It was the same guard. He was even still wearing the uniform, he’d just swapped the Customs Service patches with ones from a taxi company and put on a vest. The guard had been smiling amiably when he turned, but at Jongdae’s sudden stop, the smile dropped off his face, and his hand went to his belt.  
“You found them,” Team Leader Lee arrived, stumbling directly into the seat next to Sarai. He held out a hand to shake, puffing in exertion.  “Detective Lee, Seoul Police.”  
As Sarai shook his hand with a bemused expression, Jongdae kept his eye on the suspicious guard. He hadn’t made a move yet, but he definitely had his hand on a weapon. He was watching the exchange between Sarai and Team Leader Lee with an intensity in his eyes that Jongdae didn’t like at all. He was young, a bit taller than Jongdae and, to an average observer, he seemed thin, harmless. The giveaway was how he stood, his posture relaxed but not static, at ease but not at rest, coiled like a predator idling in the bushes. He was standing far too close to Baekhyun.  
“Kim!” Jongdae started as Lee barked his name. “Get over here and explain the situation.”  
Jongdae hesitated, torn. Every step closer to Lee and Sarai was a step further away from Baekhyun and the armed assassin masquerading as a taxi driver. But he couldn’t just stand here, or the assassin would know his cover was blown. Jongdae’s hip itched for the weight of his police sidearm or even a baton. Without a weapon of his own, there was precious little he could do. He began walking towards Lee and Sarai, and the assassin met his eyes.  One side of his mouth lifted in a crooked smirk, and he moved slightly, so that Baekhyun was always between them and the taxi stand’s counter was at his back. The assassin was using Baekhyun as a shield. He knew Jongdae had made him.   
Jongdae swallowed, his mind racing through possible solutions as he slowly closed the distance between himself, Lee, and Sarai.  
“Is there tar on your feet? What are you doing, Kim?” Team Leader Lee grabbed his arm and pulled him the rest of the way into their circle. For a split second, Jongdae looked away from the assassin, jostled by the team leader’s hold. He whipped his head back towards the threat, drawing breath to scream a warning, but it was too late. The assassin was already in motion, pulling out a tiny single use pistol practically hidden by his long fingers. Baekhyun was in front of him. Team Leader Lee and Sarai were both looking at Jongdae. None of them would see  the pistol in time to react. Sarai’s eyes widened as she saw something in Jongdae’s expression, and she turned toward the assassin, rising from her seat.  
Baekhyun disappeared, vanished, an empty space where he had been standing.  
The assassin pitched forward, like he’d been rammed in the gut.  
The pistol barked once.  
Blood erupted from Sarai’s left shoulder, and she slammed back into her seat.  
Chaos erupted around them as nearby travellers fled screaming from the crime. Jongdae charged towards the doubled over assassin, trying to tackle him now that his one shot was spent. The assassin straightened at the last moment, and panic flashed across his face, but Jongdae was too close to avoid. His shoulder connected with the assassin’s chest, but then all resistance evaporated and Jongdae slammed into the taxi counter, headfirst. He slid to the ground, gasping, stunned, as fine dust rained down all around him. _Smells like cinnamon_ , Jongdae thought giddily, and blacked out.

 


	26. The Family You Choose X

Kyungsoo blinked awake, his dream disintegrating instantly, leaving only a trace of foreboding. Above him, stars twinkled through the wispy clouds, the moon already tucked away in the morning’s early hours. He shifted his hand to his right, searching by reflex, but found only empty space beside him. Again. He sat up groggily, frowning at the empty wooden planks where Chanyeol should have been. The deck had no fresh scorch marks, so Chanyeol hadn’t been awakened by another nightmare. Kyungsoo pressed his hand against the wood, but the smooth timbers were as cool as the night air. There was no telling how long Chanyeol had been gone.

The night was so still Kyungsoo could hear his own heartbeat, the quiet interrupted only by the occasional warble of a lone cicada nearby. It should have felt peaceful, but the silence irritated him like an ill-fitting shirt. He fished the burner phone out of his back pocket, but the screen was empty. No missed calls or monosyllabic messages of warning from their anonymous guardian. And yet, Kyungsoo couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

The ancient paper door of the main house slid open with a rasp, and their elderly host shuffled onto the doorstep, fully dressed in his customary hanbok. With slow deliberate motions, he picked up the walking stick resting on top of his shoes, and leaned on it as he carefully arranged his shoes outward. Kyungsoo cleared his throat and the old man paused, blinking his cloudy eyes in surprise.

“You’re awake?”

“I can’t sleep anymore,” Kyungsoo confessed. “Can I take you somewhere?”

The old man straightened as he finished his preparations and pointed uphill, towards the village center. “I heard many people pass by, walking that way.” He began making his way to the gate, his stick tapping back and forth. “Your friend followed them.”

“In the middle of the night?” The gate whined as Kyungsoo hastily pulled on his shirt, and stuffed his feet into his shoes. He scrambled to catch up to the blind man he was supposed to be guiding, the muddy path sucking at his soles. “Is there a storm coming?” That would explain this sense of dread. Another powerful storm might wash this village away completely.

The old man drew in a deep breath through his nose. “The air doesn’t smell like rain.” Kyungsoo took an experimental sniff of the night air. All he could smell was the salty sharpness of the sea. The old man slowed his pace, tilting his ear back toward a house they had just passed. His wrinkles deepened as he listened to a faint sound only he could hear. “Someone is singing a funeral song.”

“Did an elder live here?” Kyungsoo wondered aloud, studying the house. The home was small, but seemed well kept. A few toys were scattered near the entrance, evidence that a family with young children was living there. The old man clasped his hands on top of his walking stick, and bowed his head in respect. Rational Kyungsoo knew the best thing to do was to mind his own business and move along.

Instead, curious Kyungsoo gingerly approached the house. He tried to make his footfalls as quiet as possible so he wouldn’t disturb the household if they were in the midst of a ceremony. As he crept closer, he could make out the broken melody of an old hymn, meant to ease the passing of the dead into the next life. The front door was ajar, the barely audible song filtering through the crack. The feeling of something not quite right skittered beneath his skin, raising goosebumps. He tapped lightly on the aluminum doorframe, the small noise echoing obscenely into the sudden silence. 

“Hello?” Kyungsoo whispered, inching the door open, his eyes straining into the dark. “We could hear you from the street. Is everything okay?” When there was no answer, he pushed the door open fully, letting the light from the street lamp seep into the dim interior. Fingers brushed against his ankle, and Kyungsoo jerked away instinctively. After a breathless moment, his eyes adjusted, and the shadows on the floor resolved themselves into the shape of a woman lying on the floor, one hand outstretched.

Kyungsoo patted the wall beside him blindly until a light switch clicked under his fingers. The house fluorescents buzzed to life, illuminating the perfectly normal, un-haunted common room. He sank to his knees by the woman’s side as his eyes darted around the small room, checking for blood, a weapon, any sign of fight. Nothing seemed out of place. The woman’s thin shirt was damp and nearly transparent with sweat, strands of hair plastered to her face and neck. She was practically gray, barely breathing.

“Oh, boy,” Kyungsoo muttered. She was clearly ill, probably with the same flu that had been scything through the village over the past few days. He gently shook her shoulder. 

Her eyes fluttered open, but her gaze was unfocused, wandering past Kyungsoo as though he wasn’t there. Tears leaked from her eyes. “My babies.” The words were barely formed, more air than voice, and her head rolled toward the still-darkened bedroom off to the side. 

Kyungsoo thought of the toys he’d seen in the yard and rose to his feet to investigate. The bedroom had no door, just a curtain separating it from the main room. He swept it aside to see three motionless, blanket-covered figures on the floor. Two of the outlines were so small. He reached down to pull back the blanket, but hesitated. If the flu had killed these people, prudent Kyungsoo should leave them for the proper authorities. Reckless Kyungsoo whipped the blanket away in one motion, then recoiled immediately. The husband and two daughters were dead— but they hadn’t gone quietly. Both of the little girls had bloody fingernails, and flecks of pink dotted the dried foam crusted around their mouths. They had been dead for hours, rigid bodies arranged in tragically peaceful poses. The husband wasn’t posed like his daughters, just sprawled where he had fallen. The spinal fluid leaking from his nose and ears still glistened wetly, he’d been alive less than an hour ago. His face and arms were covered in deep scratches and tiny imprints of teeth. Kyungsoo tugged his shirt over his nose as a makeshift mask, then retrieved the blanket and re-draped it carefully across the still figures. The wife must have used the last of her strength to cover the bodies before collapsing. They might have died horribly, but at least they could go to the next life knowing they had been cared for. He was sliding the curtain closed on the death-filled room, when he heard the light scrape of the old man’s walking stick against the door frame.

“Wait!” Kyungsoo whirled, a warning about the sickness in the air on his lips, but the sick woman was faster. She lunged at the old man as he stepped over the threshold, sinking her teeth into the side of his leg. He screamed, a thin horrible sound as he fell backwards, flailing. Kyungsoo crossed the distance between them in two steps, and ripped the rabid woman away from the old man. She laid bonelessly where he dropped her, pulpy flesh drooling from her mouth.

“Too old,” she wheezed, and then she was still. 

The old man was fading fast, his hands clutching the air desperately as his breath rattled in his chest. He grabbed onto Kyungsoo’s shirt when he knelt beside him, clinging, his sightless eyes wide with terror.

“You’ll be fine, harabeoji,” Kyungsoo told him, the reassurances spilling out automatically even though he could feel the life draining from the old man’s body. The bite wound wasn’t even bleeding that much, just a trickle that pulsed with his hearbeat, slower with each passing second. Kyungsoo fumbled his phone from his back pocket and had 119 dialed before he realized what he was doing.

The old man’s grip abruptly loosened on his shirt, his limbs twitching as his last breath escaped with a reluctant sigh. Kyungsoo stared down at the empty husk.

“119. What’s your emergency?”


	27. Phone Call I: A Cry for Help

**Yangyang-gu Regional Dispatch Center**

**Incident Number: 18-47835**

**119 Call Transcript**

Call Received: 04:03:45

Operator: 119, what is the address of the emergency?

Caller: There’s people dying here. Everywhere.

Operator: Give me the address, sir.

Caller: They were all fine…we were fine…but the children started getting sick and it’s not the flu like the doctors said. _(inaudible)_

Operator: Sir, please calm down and tell me where you are.

Caller: They keep biting people like they’ve gone rabid.

Operator: Are you in Gisamun-ri?

Caller: Yes! We keep calling for help, everybody is sick _(coughing)_

Operator: Sir, our records show that there is already a CDC containment unit in your area. Please stay inside and they will come to your home to help you.

Caller: The soldiers locked us in! They’re pouring something around the building, please send help!

Operator: What soldiers? Sir, the CDC may confine you to your home for your own safety.

Caller: No, not just me- all of us! They told us to come to the community center, they told us there would be doctors! _(background screaming)_

Operator: Sir? Sir, can you tell me what’s happening? Sir?

_(Call ends)_

**Dispatch Record**

04:07:15 - Dispatch: Report of potential hostage situation in Gisamun-ri, multiple victims. All available units, respond.

04:09:12 - Dispatch: Attention, attention. Engine 1, Engine 2, Rescue 1 respond to 10 Gisamun-gil, multiple reports of a fire at the community center. Multiple occupants trapped inside. _(Repeated)_

04:15:33 - Engine 1: On the scene, single-story wood-frame residential, we’ve got heavy fire on front of the building, front and right sides.

Dispatch: Received. Engine 1 reporting heavy fire A-D sides.

04:17:01 - Engine 1 to Dispatch: We’ve got a military unit at the scene preventing us from operating, please advise. There are trapped victims inside. Please advise.

04:18:00 - Engine 1 to Dispatch: There is a uniformed army unit on site blockading the scene. They are not assisting the rescue, repeat, they are not assisting. Please advise.

04:18:31 - Engine 1 to Dispatch: Are you people asleep?! Where the hell is Engine 2 and Rescue 1? We’re sitting on our asses watching civilians burn to death!

Dispatch: Stand down Engine 1. That’s a direct order from the Gangwon Headquarters. Repeat. Stand down all operations and return to station.

Engine 1: Like hell we will.

 

**Report Log: NIS Armed Containment Unit 207**

**Incident 435**

00:00 Containment unit arrived on scene. Guardian reports widespread contamination of civilian population. Confirmation required.

01:20 Unit medic reports positive identification of multiple vivus-infected individuals. Guardian report confirmed. Individual quarantine is deemed inadequate. Mass quarantine protocols are in effect.

04:15 Local fire and rescue organization arrives on scene, hampering quarantine efforts. Requested assistance from HQ.

04:20 Local interference eliminated. Cleanup squad requested. Quarantine effort resuming.

06:00 Mass quarantine complete. Sixty cases successfully contained.

End of Incident 435 Containment Report

Outcome: Quarantine Successful, pending door-to-door sweep.


End file.
